Once an agent for the US, you are now settled into your new, more mundane, life, thanks to Jim Moriarty.
Nobody will ever know what you once did, or at least you thought so.
When someone from your past appears, the life you built threatens fall apart as your lies begin to unravel.
Warnings: Way too many Metal Gear Solid references, Y/N is also referred to as Hound, Rose, and Meryl (code name), violence, mention of murder of sibling, communication issues (it gets resolved), attempted murder, alcohol mentions, poorly written politics, not proofread.
London was… interesting.
Initially, you had hated the city and your life here. It was too… normal. Too mundane. Your life for the last ten years – give or take – had been all assignments, constant violence, and unnecessary death. Going from that to daily coffees from the coffee shop outside of your workplace with idle chatter with your co-workers was… well, let’s just say that it took some adjusting. Still, you persevered; this was what you wanted, after all. You hadn’t paid such a large amount of money to fake your death just on a whim. No, you needed a fresh start. You needed stability and a life where you weren’t constantly sneaking around a battlefield.
You had expected your new life to remain mundane. The coffee shop visits brought a certain peace with them, but that peace didn’t scratch the itch that you needed. You were used to drama. Used to crime and secrets. It was something that you craved, after living that way for so long. That craving was why you were so quick to accept to help Sherlock Holmes and his partner in (solving) crime. And you were glad that you had done so, considering that was how you met your current partner.
Mycroft Holmes was an interesting man. A man full of secrets but also a lot of power. However, he wasn’t like the usual government workers that you were used to. Mycroft Holmes was different. He wasn’t power hungry, didn’t use unnecessary violence to get what he wanted, and he cared, even if he didn’t show it.
He cared about his family. he cared about the country. His brother’s friends were somewhere on the list of people he cared about – not that he would ever admit that – as were his co-workers. Mycroft Holmes cared about those around him. He cared about you.
Perhaps that was why you fell for him.
After dealing with corrupt government agencies for so long and witnessing their destruction first hand, Mr. Holmes was like a breath of fresh air. Despite his uncaring and cold façade, you could read him like a book. It was something that he hated about you at first, or maybe it was because that fact was what drew him to you. That was all in the past now, though. Mycroft Holmes – your partner of one year – had moved on from pushing you away and instead didn’t like you being far from him.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes!” Another suited man called Mycroft over with a wave of his hand. “Long time no see, and who is this lovely little thing?”
You took a deep breath; the unnamed man’s ridiculously expensive – and quite frankly awful – aftershave overwhelming your senses as you did so. You forced a smile, holding out your hand in greeting.
“I’m Y/N, it’s a pleasure to meet you,”
The man introduced himself as Gerald, someone in a high-up government position somewhere you hadn’t cared enough to remember, before turning to Mycroft.
You knew that Mycroft hated small talk. Had this not been a mandatory event for people in his line of work, he wouldn’t have even bothered to come. He was debating not showing up and feigning illness, but you had forced him to go with the promise of tagging along if it was what he needed.
The conversation was boring by your standards – talks about economic struggles and the impact of some war that was going on – so you instead favoured to glance around the room, effectively tuning out the conversation.
It was a grand ballroom, as to be expected for a government facility. The walls were immaculately painted with a cream colour, clearly repainted often, and the marble-looking flooring likely cost more than your whole apartment building. The food-filled tables were covered with cloth, as were the drink tables. It oozed richness and power, everything that you had wanted to avoid.
The people were no better, of course. Power-hungry men in personally tailored suits with fake smiles and manipulative words. Well, most of them. Someone was out of place here… and you recognised him immediately.
“Are you all right?” Mycroft’s hushed voice asked you. The man had clearly left, likely without a goodbye to yourself. “You’re tense. Your body is rigid and-“
You giggled, running your hand across his suit jacket to calm yourself. “You don’t need to deduce me, Mycroft. I’m fine. I just don’t do well in social settings, that’s all.”
Mycroft nodded. He knew you were lying, of course, but this wasn’t the time nor place to discuss such a matter. He only had to be here for another hour before he was free to leave, and you could both go to that 24-hour bookshop café that you loved so much.
By the third time, it was starting to get annoying.
The man who had noticed previously had not taken his eyes off you for even a second. He walked around, holding conversation, but you knew he was watching you. You knew him too well, even after the time apart. Your partner was good at tracking his targets, even while performing other tasks. He was sly, an expert at undercover missions. He was a fox.
Glancing up at Mycroft revealed that your weird behaviour hadn’t gone unnoticed. He was looking down at you with a concerned gaze and a raised eyebrow. Even the forced smile you gave him – one that most fell for – did nothing to throw him off. You were saved, however, by a female co-worker approaching you both. Using the sudden distraction to your advantaged, you greeted the familiar woman with a smile and nod, before excusing yourself to the bathroom.
It was obvious that you needed air, Mycroft knew that much. His suspicions were only confirmed when you headed to the door rather than the ladies. Lady Smallwood’s words went unheard by Mycroft as his eyes followed your tense frame as you exited the building, followed by a man he did not recognise.
“And I feel-“ the woman’s words fell of deaf ears as Mycroft Holmes wordlessly left the conversation to follow you outside, grabbing his umbrella on the way out… just in case.
It didn’t take long for Mycroft to find you, or rather, find the man who had followed you. He saw him disappear down an alleyway beside the building and then heard your voice asking why are you here?
So, you know this man, Mycroft was quick to deduce as he stood near the alley, eavesdropping.
“Long time no see, Hound,” the unnamed man’s voice was steady, as though he had rehearsed this conversation.
“Don’t call me that. That isn’t me, not anymore.” Came your cold reply. “Hound died alongside me. Killed in action. I am not Hound.”
“Yes, you are.” Mycroft could hear the man’s dress shoes click against the gravel as he wandered further into the alleyway.
“No, I’m not. I left the life behind years ago. You can be Fox, all you want, but I am not Hound.”
“We are partners, Hound, whether you like it or not. We swore that to each other when we started working together. Every assignment, every ‘trip’, everything. We are Fox and Hound, we swore it. So, imagine my surprise when I hear that my partner was killed on a simple in-and-out assignment. That wasn’t your style. You are good at your job; you wouldn’t die in something as easy at that.”
Mycroft heard you take a deep breath, gravel crunching beneath your shoes as you spun to face this Fox.
“We are not Fox and Hound. Not anymore. You can be Fox if you want, but I am not Hound. I didn’t want that for myself, I never did. I was freshly eighteen when they recruited me. I had no idea what I was getting into.” You snapped. “I like my life now. That is my future. I’m not Hound. I’m Y/N. Just Y/N.”
Fox paused for a moment, and Mycroft could only assume he was watching you. Studying you.
“Your life is fake. Everything about you is fake. Your name, your past work, your relations. And let me guess, your relationship with that man, is that fake too? All for your new life? For your future?”
Mycroft’s eyebrows furrowed. Fox, whoever he was, was clearly referring to him.
“Leave him out of this, I’m serious.” Your voice was stone cold and Mycroft heard your footsteps – ones he would recognise anywhere – approaching. “Don’t talk to me. You don’t know me, not anymore.” You said as you continued walking,
“What would Emma think?” Your footsteps stopped abruptly at the name. “You swore to avenge her. I know you, Hound. I know who you are.”
A shaky inhale was your response before Fox continued to speak.
“You’re not this Y/N person. You’re Hound. Meryl, if you want a real name. The U.S agent who saved the world.”
You hesitated for a moment, before you gave one final response.
“No, I’m not,”
Mycroft heard your footsteps begin once more and hurried back inside.
You didn’t know that Mycroft had overheard your argument. Mycroft was good at hiding things from you when he wanted to, even if that wasn’t often. But it was necessary. Not only was a government party not the place for him to question you, but he also had a plan. And as he sat in front of his laptop that night, Mycroft Holmes, for the first time in a while, hesitated.
He didn’t know what he would find when he searched the database. Was he going to find that you were some war criminal or something? He wasn’t sure. Mycroft Holmes was never one to leave questions unanswered, though, so he searched, opening the first file that he saw.
TOP SECRET
U.S Government Agency: Snake:
Agent Name: Meryl Silverburgh
Code Name: Hound
Assignments: 112 (Classified)
Details: Often works with partner, Fox. Chemistry undeniable. Efficient workers. Top workers, deploy when necessary.
The document went on, spanning hundreds of pages, but Mycroft saw one thing that caught his attention as he recalled your words about how Hound had died alongside you.
Update, 2019: Hound did not return from mission. Classed as K.I.A, despite no body being found. High risk to retrieve. No need to retrieve.
So, it was true.
You – the girl he knew as Y/N – were a U.S secret agent, Meryl, who faked her death.
The knock on the door to your apartment was one you recognised with ease, and one which, despite your earlier issues, brought a smile to your face. You love Mycroft, even if the two of you were never entirely open and honest about your affections for each other.
“Mycroft, hi,” you smiled up at him, one which dropped upon seeing the solemn look on his face. “Are you… okay?”
Mycroft’s eyes remained on the wall beside your head, never meeting your eyes.
“Can I come in?” He asked. “I need to talk to you.”
You paused, hand tightly gripping the wood of the door. “Uh, sure. Come in.”
Mycroft nods, gaze still avoiding yours as you let him into your apartment. Something that once felt natural now felt strained, as though Mycroft Holmes was a million miles away from you, despite it being merely an arm’s reach,
“Do you want a drink?” You asked awkwardly, gesturing towards the kettle.
Mycroft didn’t answer your question, instead favouring to ask his own. “That man, Fox. Was what he said true? Was what I read true?” For the first time since he arrived, Mycroft’s eyes met yours, just in time to see them widen. “Was everything a lie? Are you really a government agent?” His voice was strained, the hesitance evident in his eyes.
You froze, your hand that was previously raised to point at the kettle fell to your side, shaking. “Mycroft…” You pause, balling your hands into fists as you shoved them in your pockets. He’d realise you were shaking if you didn’t. “I’m sorry.” You couldn’t explain, you know that. Even if you tried, what could you say? He had access to your files, everything – at least most of your life – was on them. There wasn’t much you could say that he wouldn’t already know. “I’m so sorry.”
Mycroft nodded, wordlessly turning to exit your apartment, perhaps for the last time. You knew there was no point stopping him or even trying to. What you did was wrong, you know that. In fact, you weren’t even sure if you would forgive yourself.
The door remained closed, despite the long time you spent staring at it. Mycroft wasn’t going to return, that much was obvious, and you couldn’t blame him. Rather than chasing after him, you simply reached for your phone, pulling out the piece of paper that you had found in your pocket once you returned and dialling the digits that were scrawled on it.
“Fine, you win.” You spoke the moment you heard someone answer. You knew who it was anyway. “What’s the mission?”
Mycroft Holmes prided himself on his intelligence. He could read people well and knew when they were being untruthful… or so he thought. You… God how could deceive him so well? He knew that love was a dangerous disadvantage – he recalled telling Sherlock that numerous times – but he never believed that he would fall victim to it.
Your entire relationship was fake. You didn’t love him. You were simply using him to secure your future, at least, that was what he got from Fox’s words. That was what he believed to be truth, one which was only solidified by your refusal to explain.
Mycroft heard the crack rather than felt it. The pen in his hand that he was using to try and fill in some paperwork broke from the strength of his grip, ink rushing down his palm as he cursed quietly.
Never had he expected himself to be one overwhelmed by emotions. He had never expected to be betrayed, least of all by you. Who were you? And there was one question that was unanswered, despite him reading through every document on the system: who was Emma?
Government parties were boring. They always had been, yet Mycroft forced himself to attend. Well, more like his mother forced him to get out of the house once she realised the state he was in during her visit. Besides, she had always wanted to attend such a lavish party, so taking her as his plus-one helped him cease her begging. It felt wrong… not having you as his plus-one.
“Mr. Holmes, we meet again!” The man from the previous party – before everything went to shit, for lack of a better word – greeted him. “Is Y/N not here today?”
Mycroft felt his body tense at the mention of your name, and he silently shook his head, grateful that his mother guided the conversation by introducing herself. Usually, Mycroft hated how much she could talk, but right now, it was the only thing keeping him sane. The waiting was awful.
Mycroft paid no attention to the conversation happening in front of him as he looked around the room, eyes focusing on the spot where you had stood with him a week prior before exiting. His gaze then drifted to the door, seeing a woman with red hair enter the building, alongside a man with grey hair.
Mycroft quietly scoffed to – and at - himself as he looked at the woman; she looked like you. Wait. No, she was you. Despite the red hair and green eyes, this woman was you. There was no doubt about it. The way she carried herself, the – albeit fake – smile, and her posture; this was you… and the man was Fox.
Before he could begin to wonder what you were doing here, Mycroft’s focus was broken by his phone vibrating in his pocket. Now, he was never one to have his phone on anything but silent, but he was waiting… Waiting for a very important message.
2 New Messages: Sherlock
If you smiled at one more person, you thought you might scream.
Undercover work was something you thought that you had left behind long ago, but it was like you never left. Your fake identity fell from your lips with ease and the way you were able to extract information from the partygoers hadn’t changed much. This had been your job for so many years and it was hard not to slip back into it.
Despite your focus on the task at hand, it was hard not to notice Mycroft. An unfamiliar pain filled you as you watched him rapidly type of his phone. It was abnormal for him to even use the thing unless he had to, but he looked relieved at whoever was messaging him. It hurt… How could he move on so quickly?
“Focus, Hound,” the man beside you muttered into your ear, as he lightly grasped your waist. “We have a job to do.”
You spared one final look at Mycroft before turning your attention to your fake boyfriend for the night, leaning into his touch with great effort.
“Don’t call me that,”
Fox chuckled, pulling away to grab a glass from the tray in front of him, handing one to you before picking up his own. To any onlookers, you simply looked like a very powerful couple. Fox – or Alan as you were currently calling him – wore a well-fitted black suit while you – Rose as of right now – wore a very elegant silver dress that was, quite frankly, the last thing you wanted to wear right now.
‘Alan’ raised the champagne glass to you, encouraging you to do the same.
“To us,” he smiled. “And to our engagement.” You clinked your glass against his in a toast, the ring on your finger something that you had forgotten about.
“To us,” you forced yourself to sound happy, leaning into his chest.
Your ‘toast’ caught the attention of a pair of onlookers, a couple, by no doubt. And as they approached, you spared one final glance at Mycroft who was already looking at you.
“They are cute, aren’t they?” Mrs Holmes’ voice was slightly slurred from the excessive amount of champagne she was drinking. “Reminds me of when your father and I were younger. Say, Mycroft, when are you going to bring Y/N over again? I do miss her.”
Mycroft turned with a sigh. “What are you talking about, Mother?”
Mrs Holmes pointed towards four people, all with happy smiles on their faces as they conversed. An older couple – ones he recognised but did not know the names of – and a red-head and grey-haired couple; you and Fox. The arm that he had wrapped around your waist sparked a weird feeling inside Mycroft chest, one that he wasn’t willing to name. The feeling only worsened when he saw you look up at Fox with a smile while adjusting his messy hair.
While he wasn’t willing to name it, Sherlock would have been more than happy to call his brother out on his jealousy. In fact, he would have teased him relentlessly once he saw Mycroft striding towards you, abandoning their mother who was left to engage in mindless – and boring - chatter with Mycroft’s assistant. Alas, Sherlock was not here, so Mycroft didn’t have to worry about the endless teasing.
“Yes, we have been together for quite a while now,” Mycroft heard Fox’s confident voice as he approached. “About seven years now, I believe.”
You took a sip from your glass before replying. “Yes, something like! We relocated just outside of London six months ago. We felt it would be a good place to settle down once we were engaged.”
Six months ago, Mycroft thought to himself. Ironic considering six months ago you were visiting his parents’ home with him.
“It is a wonderful place to live!” The older woman spoke. “We live in London due to the nature of David’s work, but I do enjoy living here. There’s never a dull moment.”
The woman’s husband, David, glanced over his shoulder to spot Mycroft.
“Speaking of work, this is Mycroft Holmes. A co-worker of sorts.” He introduced, stepping aside to allow Mycroft to enter to conversation. “Mycroft this is Alan and Rose! They recently relocated to London following their engagement.”
You took a deep breath before glancing up at Mycroft, willing yourself to maintain your composure, especially with all eyes currently on you.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” your voice was steady, but your heartrate was anything but as you held out your hand for him to shake. If he was confused, Mycroft did not show it as he took your hand in his own and gave it a formal shake. “My fiancée and I are currently in search of the prime minister. Have you seen him? Alan has something very important he needs to discuss.”
Your words were the first giveaway that something was wrong. Mycroft knew that your backstory was fake – he knew that you knew that too – but asking him for the PM’s location? Something was dreadfully wrong. Your eye contact with Mycroft remained, even as ‘Alan’ spoke.
“Yes, it is terribly important, Mr. Holmes. Cannot wait, sadly! Any ideas?”
Mycroft forced his eyes from you, instead landing on Alan.
“I believe he is upstairs, accompanied by an Iranian minister,”
You nodded in appreciation, shooting a look to Fox which did not go unnoticed by Mycroft before excusing yourselves from the conversation.
The remaining trio watched as Rose and Alan quickly wandered upstairs before returning to their own conversations.
“Lovely couple, aren’t they, Mr. Holmes?”
It was quiet. Way too quiet considering the PM was supposed to be up here conversing with a minister. The prime minister was never known to be quiet, especially not when talking to people from foreign countries, so it was strange.
You glanced up at the blinking red light of the camera that stalked the hall, debating whether to shoot it or not. You decided against it, since it would only be more damning for you and Fox in the long run. At least if you were able to save the PM, it would serve as evidence of your support if required.
Fox silently nodded at you then a slightly ajar door. There were hushed whispers from inside, two men’s voices. Your hand reached beneath the fabric of your dress, pulling out a tranquiliser gun. You returned the nod, following Fox’s lead as you entered the room.
In front of you, the supposed Iranian minister – a killer for hire, as you knew from the briefing given to you by Fox – hovered over the prime minister, knife in hand. His guards were nowhere in sight, either having been dismissed by the PM or killed by the other man. Neither of the two were aware of your presence which meant you had an easy shot. The quiet pew of the tranquiliser gun echoed throughout the room as you fired the shot into the assassin, watching him drop instantaneously, landing atop of the prime minister whose eyes widened.
A breath of relief left Fox’s lips as he pulled out a device, beginning to contact the security team assigned to you both for this mission.
You approached the PM with a reassuring smile, pulling the other man’s limp body from him.
“He’s not dead,” you explained as you cuffed the man’s hands. “Just asleep. Tranquiliser.” Were your words as you sheathed the gun back into the holster beneath your dress.
The brunette man in front of you nodded, muttering a quiet thank you as you helped him to his feet with inquiries about how he was feeling. Once you were certain that he was fine – and ensuring that the culprit was safely escorted from the premises – you excused both yourself and previous partner, desperate the leave the building.
Following Fox was nothing new, especially into alleyways; they were, after all, good hiding spots, especially for finding intel.
It was a weird sense of deja-vu. 7 days ago, you were stood in his current position, watching him request your return. Now, you stood where he had, your back to the outside world, yet you were not the one asking.
“We did good,” Fox says. “We always did, Hound. Emma would be proud.”
Your body tensed at her name.
“Don’t bring my sister into this,” you murmured, barely loud enough for him to hear. “She was innocent. She didn’t deserve to die for what I did.” A shaky inhale. “It should have been me. I was the one who messed up the mission. She was just a kid, and they punished her for my mistake.”
“It made you a better soldier,”
“It made me want to die. My little sister was killed just to punish me, and you wonder why I don’t want to return.”
Fox nodded. “I understand, Meryl.”
You shook your head. “No, you don’t.”
You watched as Fox took a deep breath, clearly trying to think of a reply. He knew you were right. He would never understand, no matter how hard he tried to.
“I won’t return,” your voice was strong as you spoke. “I like my life here. I like my day-to-day, even if it gets boring. I like my co-workers, my friends… I love them, all of them. Even if I mess up sometimes, they forgive me. The lives of people and the world aren’t in my hands. If I make a mistake, people don’t die… usually. Living here… it’s what I want. I love it. And I know people may not forgive me for lying, but… I still love them. I want to help them, and that’s why I agreed to help today. Mycroft may never forgive me for lying to him, but at least I saved him a bunch of work and stress by preventing his boss from being assassinated.”
You swallowed, eyes wide as you watched your past partner begin to chuckle.
“I never knew you could be so soppy, Meryl.” He continued chuckling. “I suppose I should call you Y/N now, though. Emma did always like calling you that.”
You smiled at the mention of your sister’s favourite name for you. “It was my way of keeping her memory alive. She gave me that name when we played pretend as kids. I’ll never forgive them for what they did to her.”
Fox returned your smile, approaching you. You watched him with curious eyes as he glanced behind you with a smile, patting your shoulder twice before muttering just quiet enough for you to hear. “Maybe not all hope is lost.” He said before walking past you. “Mr. Holmes.”
“Alan,” the familiarity of Mycroft’s voice had you spinning on your heels, revealing Mycroft stood less than a meter away, Fox facing him. “Or whatever your name is.”
“Classified, I’m afraid. Though, I’m sure you could find out quite easily.” Fox said with a nod. “If you ever want to return, they’ll always take you back. I’ll always take you back. We were partners, that doesn’t just disappear.”
You nodded, a simple thank you leaving your lips as you watched Fox leave, likely not for the last time, but hopefully the next time it will be more casually rather than work-related.
You and Mycroft stood in silence for a few minutes, unsure at what to say. You had resided yourself to the fact that he hated you – understandably so, in your head – and prepared to apologise and say your final goodbye when he spoke.
“Can we talk?”
You looked at him as though he had spoken some alien language. Confusion overtook you at the realisation that he wanted to hear you out.
“Only if I can get out of this outfit. The wig is making me itch.”
A car ride back to Mycroft’s home and one shower later was all you needed to feel better. Now that the itchiness of the wig had disappeared and you were in the comfort of some of Mycroft’s more casual clothes, you felt at ease, especially with the warm mug in your hands.
The pair of you sat in silence for a while, processing everything that had happened as you sipped the warm liquid. The fire crackled beside you both as you faced each other, the expensive leather of the couch providing a comfort you never believed to be possible.
He didn’t rush you; there was no point. Mycroft knew you well enough by now to know that you would speak when you were ready, rushing that would not help.
Neither of you knew how long you sat there, only that the warmth of the fire did not match the warmth that you felt being in one another’s presence again. A week, while not much to most people, was a long time to be apart from the person you loved, even if you believed that they did not love you back.
“It’s true.” Were your first words. “My job. Well, I mean… obviously it’s true, you literally saw me working.” Your words were rushed as you struggled to explain. He was patient, something you forgot he had the ability to be sometimes. “I obviously can’t tell you everything. You can read a lot, I know that, but that isn’t everything. Somethings, I can’t tell you.”
Mycroft nodded in understanding but remained silent, allowing you to continue.
“Emma isn’t in there. They knew better than to document that.” Your voice was shaky. “I made a mistake once, during a mission. I got caught, had to be saved. The company didn’t like that… and because I failed them and made them waste resources, they… killed her. My punishment, I suppose.”
Tears slipped from your eyes as you spoke. Emma, despite always being in your mind, was rarely spoken about. You tried not to think about what happened to her and instead focused on the positives. Talking about what happened made you feel weak. So weak that you weren’t sure that you could continue. You blamed yourself, that much was obvious. You paused, shaky breaths being the only sound that you could hear.
Mycroft’s hand grasped your own, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and that was all the strength you needed.
“She used to call me Y/N, when we played pretend as kids. Our parents were never around and when they were, it was never good. When I was eighteen, I was promised safety for us both, so I agreed. I wanted nothing more than to protect Emma, but in the end, I couldn’t even do that.”
The leather of the sofa creaked as Mycroft shuffled towards you.
“It’s not your fault,” his voice was quiet and earnest. “You did what you could with the information you were given. What happened to her is not your fault.” He reached out the grab a tissue from his pocket, gently dabbing at your tears. “I don’t like that you lied to me, but I understand why you did it.” Mycroft took a deep breath as he placed the tissue on the table in front of the sofa. “Admittedly, I didn’t know what to believe; I even contacted Sherlock to do his ‘detective work’.”
You laughed. “I thought you didn’t like feeling like his client?”
Mycroft shook his head with a scoff. “Not at all. He made me sit on the ‘client chair’ and interrogated me.” The corner of his lips lifted as her heard you laugh at the image. “But I trust you. I…” Mycroft paused, gaze turning to the fireplace as he swallowed, taking a deep breath. “I love you, even if you are frustrating sometimes.”
Your free hand reached out the turn Mycroft to face you.
“I love you too,” you whispered, leaning forward to press your lips to his in a light kiss. “And I promise you that I’ll never lie to you again.”
A smile crawled onto his lips as he cleared his throat.
“Good, because if I have to work with Sherlock and John again, I think I may just give up. Honestly, they were so-“
Mycroft’s rant about his brother and his friend went mostly unheard by you and you pressed yourself against Mycroft’s chest, feeling him freeze for a moment before wrapping his arms around you and continuing his rant.
Synopsis: You were an ex-spy who needed to fly under the radar to stay safe, and he? He was the Devil.
A/n: As I grow older, the older Holmes becomes my cup of tea. Love me a man with power.
“I’m sorry, what are we doing exactly?”
Your worried tone disturbed John but did nothing to deter Sherlock from what he was about to do. “I’m getting us into a military base with Mycroft's identity. What does it look like we are doing?”
John’s eyes widened as he finally understood what was happening. “Sherlock, you look nothing like your brother,” John stated as they rolled up to the military gate. Glancing back at you, John caught sight of you rubbing your face roughly between your fingers, “We are so fucked” you whispered to yourself. There was no stopping this train wreck; you were just hopeful the Mycroft would forgive you for what you were about to allow to happen.
After being in the lab for 15 minutes, you were ‘politely’ escorted out. Upon reaching the outside and, in turn, a cell tour, your phone began blowing up with messages and missed calls. You knew exactly who they were from before even looking at them, but you didn’t exactly expect the type of message you got.
‘Return to London now before I send someone to fetch you. I am not playing this game anymore.’
Your stomach twists as you read the message over and over. Mycroft was never kidding, and you knew firsthand that he would indeed send someone to get you if you didn't listen. It's happened a fair number of times…
Sherlock and John looked at you quizically. “Thanks, boys,” you snapped as you stormed over to the car that Mycroft most certainly sent for you. “I must return to London to pay for a situation you two put me in... Once again.”
John tried to apologize, but Sherlock cut him off, “You could always choose not to listen to him. I do it all the time.”
You laughed at his words as you ripped open the door. “You don't know this side of your brother, my dear friend. I will see you two in a few days.”
The receptionist barely acknowledged you as you trudged in with your bags, the fact that he wouldn’t even let you head home first pissed you off to no extent causing your patience to dwindle quickly. “Excuse me, is Mycroft in his office?”
The receptionist stopped typing, throwing an icy glare up at you before she finally took in your disheveled form. She popped her gum between her teeth, her icy glare flicking back up to you before resuming her typing. You let out a humorless laugh at her blatantly rude behavior, “Alright, I’ll go check for myself then-”
“You take one more step, and I’m calling security.”
You halted in your tracks, eyes wide in disbelief as you tried your best not to rip her head off. “You’re kidding, right?” you whispered angrily, practically begging her to repeat what she said so you could lose your temper right then and there. Silence hung heavy and tense in the air; at this point, some of the people in the lobby were throwing glances at one another in shock of possibly seeing violence.
She said nothing but popped her gum once more up at you.
Deciding to ignore her and just find him yourself, you continue towards the doors behind the desk. The receptionist flies from her seat to stop you, but you manage to hit her in the knees with your luggage. It gave you a few seconds to slip behind the door and take off down the corridor towards the direction of Mycroft's office. The receptionist screamed for security, and you feared that if you didn’t find Mycroft soon, he’d have to fetch you from a jail cell. Rounding the corner, you came face to face with the Devil himself, who seemed to have been roused by the yelling of the guards behind you.
“Why must you always get in trouble?”
You scoffed up at him before shoving him in anger, your fuse finally being ignited. The guards finally rounded the corner just as you had shoved him, but before they could grab you, Mycroft put up a hand, “She's with me, shes just being a brat.”
“I AM NOT” you screamed back, face growing warm from now both embarrassment and rage. The receptionist came into view, popping her stupid gum as she took in the scene smugly. Your eyes narrowed at her. “You should keep your pet in check, Mr Holmes. She could be a real danger to society if not.”
The words stung, and you started to lunge at her, but Mycroft, as well as the guards, held you back. “Leave, all of you!” Mycroft snapped out before hauling you towards his office, having quite enough of your temper for the day.
“You’re just going to let her talk to me like that?! She humiliated me, Mycroft,” you cried out as the doors of his office slammed shut behind him. Tears formed along your lash line as the anger and sadness filled your veins. Mycroft ignores you as he moves toward his desk. “Do you think this is a game?”
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before once again realizing why you were here, he didn’t care if your feelings were hurt right now, for he was far too angry with you to care. The more you watched him move, the more you saw just how angry he was, but you knew that behind that anger was fear. Wiping your eyes, you moved slowly towards his desk as he sat down. “I didn’t make that decision, Mycroft-”
“You need to stay away from my brother.”
The sound of your breath getting caught in your throat was louder than you intended. “You’ve allowed me to live with Sherlock for 3 years now. I have done far more reckless actions in those three years, so why the sudden change of heart?”
Mycroft rubbed at his temple in exasperation and stress. You could visibly see just how stressed he was over this entire thing, making you worry that maybe you did cross the line, even when it wasn’t your choice. You turned his chair slightly before sitting on his lap sideways, “Whats going on?” you stated softly as you gently pulled his hands from his face, moving them to wrap around you instead, one of your hands stayed on the one you rested in your lap, fingers trailing sweetly up and down the skin below.
“You are supposed to lay low. To stay out of danger. Now that Sherlock is getting more attention, I fear that the task will be impossible, and my job is to protect you from that.”
Sadness once again wormed its way into your chest as you thought through what to do or where to go. “I can try and find a place-”
He laughed softly at you before rubbing his face once more in exasperation, “Oh my dear, sometimes you’re blind to unasked questions.”
“Well, we’ve only just begun dating again. I would have found it rude to assume! Besides, I’m still mad at you for not defending me out there.” Your lips curled up into a fake pout, causing him to laugh some more at your childishness. “I'm not kidding, Mycroft!” you hissed as you shoved his chest playfully. He wrapped a hand around your wrist, keeping you where you were. “Would you like me to fire her or feed her to the wolves, my Darling?” his teasing tone almost caused you to falter and melt, but you kept your stone-like demeanor in check, “The wolves… Mr Holmes. The wolves.”
Mycroft let go of your wrist and reached for the phone on his desk. “What are you doing?” You questioned as the sound of ringing filled the room.
“Feeding her to the wolves, of course. I’m also summoning the car for us so we can go home.”
She sat on the couch of their shared home, her legs pulled up to her chest. Her arms wrapped around her legs, holding her book out for her to read. It was a cute sight, seeing her so comfortable in their home.
Jim opened the door, his hands immediately moving to loosen his tie. He shook off his blazer, hanging it over one of the dining room chairs. He was quiet, almost silent. It was one of his favorite attributes of himself, being practically silent when he moved.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, her gaze focused on the book in front of her. He decided to have a little fun with his darling deer.
He stalked up behind her. Her long hair was hanging off the back of the couch. Even as the conspiring smirk showed on his face, he couldn’t help but admire her. He continued his plan, his steps careful and meticulously done.
He got slightly distracted staring at her hair, the tile under him squeaking. He froze, as did she. Her head moved up, her eyes looking straight forward at the wall like a deer in the headlights. He knows her so well, he can practically see the look on her face, knowing that she is now contemplating her options.
As if instinct, his little deer jumped up, her book falling to the ground as she sprinted to their shared room. Jim smiled. He loved a game like this. He ran behind her quickly. His longer legs catching up to her.
The stairs slowed her down, her shorter legs moving quickly. He followed quickly behind her, not caring to be quiet anymore. As his foot hit the top step, she was within his reach.
His hands wrap around her waist, pulling her to him. She let out a small squeal in fear. He smiled, resting his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder. Her hair covered his face, but he didn’t mind. It gave him an extra opportunity to smell her sweet scent.
Her body completely froze. Her fear was an aura surrounding her at this point. Jim finally noticed her quick breaths, and her hands that had his in a death grip around her waist. She was very scared.
His grip loosened immediately. He turned her around to let her see him. Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears and they carried an uncertain look to them. He had seen this look. She was having a panic attack.
Her eyes may be looking at him, but she didn’t see him. She was in her own little world. A world of fear.
His heart dropped. His hands naturally moved to her face, cupping both of her cheeks, and pulling her face to his. Her hands jump to his, her death grip continuing.
“Shh… it’s alright…. Shh….shh…,” he said in a comforting tone.
It seemed to calm her slightly, her body recognizing his touch, even if her brain didn’t. The tears began to fall from her eyes, another sign of her body relaxing further.
He smiled gently at her, his voice low, “Little deer, it’s alright. You’re safe…. You’re safe.”
Her body lets out a soft sigh, shaky from the tears. Her voice came out broken from the hiccuping of her diaphragm, “J…James…?”
He laughed at this. His deer was so precious. The thumb on one of the hands resting on her face began to gently move back and forth, giving her a feeling of comfort. “Yes. I’m here.”
He hated seeing her this way, but he also loved it. How she always ran into his arms when she was scared. Like now.
She let out a sob, her arms moving around his neck, pulling her to him. She began to cry harder into his chest. His hands moved to her waist, wrapping around her.
“I’m sorry, deer. I didn’t know I would frighten you like this. I wouldn’t have done so, had I known. Shh… it’s alright...,” he continued.
As her tears began to settle down, she pulled away from him. She pulled one of her arms to her face to wipe the tears, but he stopped her, his hand wrapping around her wrist. The other hand moved to her face as he gently wiped the tears for her.
She sniffles, “You’re home early.”
He let out a loud laugh at this, “You silly girl. Of course I am. I told you I would be.”
Her eyes met his, “I forgot. I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize, little deer. You should know by now that I would never let anything happen to you."
She nods slightly, moving back into his embrace, to which he happily obliged. The feeling of her in his arms was his favorite.
One of his hands moved to the back of her head, playing with her hair. “I will call Seb, and tell him to consider me off for the rest of the day. It is you and I for tonight. No interruptions. No phone calls. Could you even begin to forgive me, angel?”
He could feel her smile against his shoulder. “Of course, James.”
He sighs, kissing the top of her head, “Thank you, little deer. Now, let’s go relax, huh?”
She lets him lead her the rest of the way to their room to make up for lost time.
Sherlock was many things. Some were good, some were bad, some were… interesting, but if there was one thing that Sherlock was absolutely terrible at, it would be admitting feelings. That much became obvious as he stood in front of Y/N, the object of his affection, attempting to express his feelings for her.
“Sherlock?” She asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just be quiet for a minute.” Came his response.
“All right?” She was confused, it was pretty obvious to anyone. Sherlock never looked this awkward.”
“There’s something I need to say, something I should say…” He began, unsure where he was going with this. He lost his trail of thought the moment she looked at him with her wide and worried eyes; they were beautiful. “I know I’m… me, and I’m not exactly the most likeable person in the entire world. I’m rude, blunt, and a smartass, but…”
“There’s no need to put yourself down so much, Sher,” she sighed, shaking her head at his insulting words.
“I thought I told you to be quiet!” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as she laughed and apologised.
“What I’m trying to say is… I like you. Don’t ask me why because I have no idea why, you’re a moron.”
Y/N burst into giggles at the final sentence. “That was so cute, at least until you called me a moron.” She smiled, stepping towards the, now blushing, man. Lifting herself onto her toes, Y/N placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.
“Don’t worry, I like you too, even if I am a moron.”
All my writing for Hamilton, Sherlock, Harry Potter, Newsies, A Series of Unfortunate Events, 101 Dalmatian Street, Zootopia, Wall-E, Ratatouille, The Maze Runner, Hook, She-Ra, The Incredibles, My Little Pony: A New Generation, Wizards of Waverly Place, Danganronpa, Looney Tunes, Raya and the Last Dragon, Cars, Toy Story, Winnie the Pooh, Tarzan and Captain Marvel will be linked here!
*I do NOT wish to receive further requests for these fandoms. They're archived for a reason, I'd like to leave these up for people in those fandoms to enjoy but I reserve the right to delete anything on here without warning
Imagines
full on one shots with your favourite characters
HAMILTON THE MUSICAL
Thomas Jefferson
Permission to Court? (Gender Neutral Reader)
King George
I Missed You (Female Reader)
Don't Need Riches (Gender Neutral Reader)
BBC SHERLOCK
John Watson
Can't Sleep (Gender Neutral Reader)
Sherlock Holmes
He's a Jerk (Gender Neutral Reader)
HARRY POTTER
Luna Lovegood
Yule Ball (Gender Neutral Reader)
Newt Scamander
Awkward (Gender Neutral Reader)
Sirius Black
Muggle (Gender Neutral Reader)
Deal (Female Reader)
Intimate (Female Reader)
Try Again (Gender Neutral Reader)
Reunion (FtM Reader)
Remus Lupin
Girlfriend? (Female Reader)
Queenie Goldstein
Lovely Thoughts (Female Reader)
Harry Potter
Hogsmeade (Gender Neutral Reader)
A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS
Klaus Baudelaire
Happy Birthday (Gender Neutral Reader)
Alone (Gender Neutral Reader)
Letters (Gender Neutral Reader)
Jack London (Gender Neutral Reader)
Yours (Gender Neutral Reader)
Substitute (Gender Neutral Reader)
Valentine (Gender Neutral Reader)
Moving On (Female Reader)
Not That Easy (Gender Neutral Reader)
Bad Day (Gender Neutral Reader)
Anniversary (Gender Neutral Reader)
Duncan Quagmire
Christmas Party (Female Reader)
Jealous (Female Reader)
Isadora Quagmire
Special (Female Reader)
The Ersatz Elevator (Female Reader)
Violet Baudelaire
Falling for You (Female Reader)
Baudelaires
Island Days (Gender Neutral Reader)
NEWSIES
Davey Jacobs
First Kiss (Gender Neutral Reader)
101 DALMATIAN STREET
Doug
Father's Day! (Gender Neutral Reader)
Delilah
Sick Day (Gender Neutral Reader)
ZOOTOPIA
Judy Hopps
What Parents Do (Gender Neutral Reader)
Halloween's Scary (Gender Neutral Reader)
TARZAN
Jane Porter
Jungle Girl (Female Reader)
WALL-E
Wall-E
Holidays (Gender Neutral Reader)
Fourth of July (Gender Neutral Reader)
EVE
Thunderstorms (Gender Neutral Reader)
Wall-E & EVE
Robot Child (Gender Neutral Reader)
Earth Day (Gender Neutral Reader)
Kyoko Kirigiri
Would You Be So Kind (Gender Neutral Reader)
SPACE JAM: A NEW LEGACY
All/Multiple
Binders (FtM Reader)
Headcanons
Headcanons related to these characters
A Series of Unfortunate Events
Being Friends with Duncan Quagmire (Gender Neutral)
Baudelaires and Quagmires React to you Saying you Love Them (Gender Neutral)
Klaus Baudelaire with Secretly Soft Reader (Gender Neutral)
Baudelaires & Quagmires React to Metalhead Reader (Gender Neutral)
Dunklaus Headcanons
Ratatouille
Playing Overcooked with Linguini and Colette (Female Reader)
Dating Remy the Rat Would Include (Gender Neutral)
Warning Linguini and Colette About a Leak (Female Reader)
Linguini and Colette with Child! Reader (Gender Neutral)
The Incredibles
Being the Oldest Incredikid With No Powers (Gender Neutral)
She-Ra and the Princesses of Power
Reuniting with Twin Sister Catra (Gender Neutral)
Being BFFs and Roommates with Adora (Gender Neutral)
My Little Pony: A New Generation
Dating Alphabittle Would Include (Gender Neutral)
Danganronpa
THH Characters Cheering You Up Pt. 1 (Gender Neutral)
THH Characters Cheering You Up Pt. 2 (Gender Neutral)
Goodbye Despair Characters Cheering You Up (Gender Neutral)
Raya and the Last Dragon
Dating Sisu Would Include (Gender Neutral)
Winnie the Pooh
Dating Rabbit Would Include (Gender Neutral)
Toy Story
Being Jessie's Girl Would Include (Female Reader)
Dating Buzz Lightyear Headcanons (Gender Neutral)
The Toy Story Gang Dealing with Traumatized Toy!Reader (Gender Neutral)
Toy Story Gang with Clingy Reader (Gender Neutral)
Cars
Being Lightning McQueen's S/O (Gender Neutral)
Dating Ramone and Boost Would Include (Gender Neutral)
Doc's Friends X Reader Headcanons (Gender Neutral)
Dating Mac (Cars) Would Include (Gender Neutral)
Being Best Friends with Lightning McQueen and Mater (Gender Neutral)
Holmes Brothers Reaction to You getting hurt by Their Enemy - Preferences
Mycroft Holmes
Mycroft didn't care for 'Goldfish'. Then why was he rushing to the hospital as soon as he got the call? Why did his heart skip a beat when your name and the word 'shot' was mentioned in the same sentence?
Mycroft didn't even stop by the reception desk, he knew where you were, of course he did.
And then, he saw you on the bed, talking to a nurse as she put a new IV bag up for you.
"Myc?"
"Darling." he said so naturally, it didn't even shock you. His eyes scanned you over and you knew he just checked your health better than any doctor could have.
"I'm perfectly fine. I was shot, my arm does hurt, but I'm fine." you said and Mycroft collected himself and smoothened his tie.
"I wasn’t worried." he said and you giggled. Of course, he would deny any emotion, but you knew better, you saw it in his eyes.
Mycroft stayed with you while they checked you out, he wanted to be 100% sure everything was absolutely okay with you. And once you could leave the hospital, he would make sure to drive you home and he would only drive away once the light in your apartment is turned on, that's when he'd know you are safe. Of course, he would have his revenge on the person who did this to you.
Even if he said he didn't care, he certainly did. It warmed your heart and certainly made you hope for the future.
Sherlock Holmes
John got the call, you called him asking if he can drive you home since you were attacked and left with a broken ankle, Sherlock just happened to be there.
Sherlock made John break a couple laws while driving there "My brother IS the government, you won't get a ticket!" he said over and over.
But once they arrived at the hospital, he'd be stoic, he would also analyse your posture, getting to the conclusion that your injury was bad but not life-threatening, what was scarier is what you said to John.
"I was walking home when they hit me in the head. They said it was because of Sherlock and then after a couple hits and kicks, they left, they smelled strongly of alcohol."
Sherlock was immediately on the case, already half done by the time they arrived to your home.
Sherlock would proudly present to you the three men that attacked you by the time you got to your apartment and opened the door. And five minutes later, the men were in cuffs.
You knew it was his way of showing he cared.
"You should tell her." said John as the two sat back into the car.
"Tell her what?"
"You are clever, Sherlock, you know what I meant." John started driving as Sherlock smiled, he just might, in the future, so you can move in and he can keep you safe.
And John ended up with speeding and parking tickets.
Your chest rose and fall with each heavy breath that you take. Your head dropped tiredly down on top of Mycroft’s chest, which was also going up and down, his heart rate accelerated. Your legs were burning from running so quickly to tackle the sturdy Mycroft Holmes out of the way of the firework which was launched in his direction. “You’re welcome,” You grumbled, trying to get up. Watson had hobbled over, and held his hand out. You took it thankfully, getting to your feet.
“Oh, erm, yes, thank you,” Mycroft said, refusing any help standing up, adjusting his suit. You took in the damage that was behind him. The soot and fire that was burning down the house that had already been evacuated. Lestrange had the culprit in handcuffs. Sherlock figured it out just in time, but you’d been the one that got Mycroft out of the way of danger.
“I think I deserve at least a pay raise for that, don’t you think?” You asked, then trying to catch Mycroft’s eye. “A .. saving the bosses life bonus? A promotion maybe? Or a career switch completely, like becoming your bodyguard, since you continue to be so careless!”
Mycroft, who was brushing grass and dirt off of his sleeve, paused and looked to you, puzzlement at your outburst. “No, because that would encourage you to take part in such dangerous acts again-”
“Don’t mind my brother, y/n, he has always been an idiot,” Sherlock dropped himself into the conversation, the way that he usually did. You were used to it. You had known these boys all of your life. “He has not even deduced yet the real reason why you decided to take on the,” A chuckle, “Dangerous act.”
John was smirking. You were glaring. Mycroft was staring. Sherlock rolled his eyes now.
“Imbecile. Y/N has been in love with you for years, and I for one, am sick of watching you not notice. It was amusing at first, but you’ve even gone beyond my expectations.”
Now you were flushed. At least you had the excuse of the excursion, pretending that you were still trying to catch your breath. Avoiding Mycroft’s eye now.
“I see,” Mycroft said. Adjusted the collar of his jacket. “See me in my office first thing Monday morning, y/n. I am off for home now that the matter is settled. Goodnight.”
“I should get going too,” You muttered, feeling your heart sink. Now you felt like you were going to lose your job. Your best friends. All because Sherlock couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Dejected, you walked out of the street to find a cab to go home, missing Sherlock’s last words to Watson.
“Is everyone so stupid? Y/N hasn’t noticed that Mycroft loves them too.”
“No, no, not stupid,” Watson replied. “Just - wary.”
summary: Grace Carter, the newest and best detective at Scotland Yard meets Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective. The case of the woman in pink marking the first chapter of their story.
Or in which two pained individuals find each other in amidst some of their hardest times.
WARNING/S: This story will contain mature scenes and discuss themes of mental health, specifically depression, suicide, and drug use. If these topics may trigger you in anyway please proceed with caution or do not read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
word count: 12.6k
There was a certain dreariness to living in a constant state of repetition. The sun would rise in the east, set in the west, and in between Grace would find herself completing the same mundane tasks. It was boring. Life is boring. Even the persistent feeling of melancholy that swallowed her entire being felt a little empty as of late.
Grace had only taken a few bites of her cereal before deciding that she did not want it to start with. The clattering of a spoon and now-emptied bowl echoed around her small apartment. The sound loud enough to distract her from thought, if only for a second. The niggling voice in her head whispering to do more with her life, find some excitement. The other half of her wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed and never get out again.
Cold fingers clutch onto the strap of her leather handbag as Grace rushes out the door. Dark hair swishing behind her as fresh winds connected with her front. It was unlikely that she’d be late to work. However, who was she to give Anderson something to bitch about? The rain had lightened up during the night, now just spitting in the early morning. There was a chill in the air, the type that you felt down to your bones. Each splash of water as boots hit the ground created a small sound that drew comfort, should you listen for it carefully.
There were too many noises in the morning rush. Grace found it severely overwhelming, but it had been something she had learnt to cope with. The overpowering of her senses that she found completely and utterly unbearable. It sent a shiver up her spine, and her fight or flight spiralling. Perhaps not the best thing to be susceptible to when working as a detective. But oh, how good she had become at concealment. So unbelievingly talented at masking it all. How great she was at getting lost in thought and forgetting the present moment. Such that as she walked into her workplace, Scotland Yard, she felt as though only moments had passed since she left her apartment, and not half an hour.
‘You’re late,’ Anderson tsked from behind his desk.
‘I’m on time,’ Grace spits back. The minute hand on the clock flicking to 9am just as she places her belongings down.
‘For future reference, it’s best to get here at least ten minutes early—’
‘For future reference, mind your own business. And get a haircut.’
‘Now, now, children, play nicely.’ Lestrade exits his office, files in hand. ‘I’m going to need you all on board for this one.’ He drops the files individually down on each desk.
‘The serial suicides?’ Grace questions. ‘I thought you and Donovan had these covered.’
‘So did I, there was another one late last night. Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport.’
‘And you didn’t call me in?’
‘You needed rest, we had it covered.’ Greg lowers his voice before continuing, ‘and I don’t want this case to trigger you.’
‘I’m fine, Greg. I wouldn’t be in this field of work if I couldn’t handle it. I’m not as fragile as you seem to believe.’
Lestrade was aware of Grace’s mental health issues, he had to be as her boss. But sometimes she wished she could erase that part of his memory, so that he’d stop treating her like a child that cannot look after herself. She was capable of resting, she was capable of eating, so why must be bother her so much? One could say it was friendship, another could say he simply worries. Grace would say that Greg just had a very caring nature. He was rough and tough around the edges, but anyone could tell he was a softie at heart. But sometimes, he cares a little too much, and it becomes overbearing.
‘We have a press meeting in an hour, you’ll want to read those files by then,’ Greg gestures with his head.
‘The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide,’ Sally Donovan addresses the gathered reporters. ‘We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.’
‘Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?’
‘They all took the same poison,’ Grace cuts in. ‘They were all found in places they shouldn’t have been.’
‘Yes, and well, none of them had shown and prior indication of—’ Greg continues, only to be cut off by reporters.
‘But you can’t have serial suicides.’
‘Obviously you can,’ Grace rebuts.
‘These three people: there’s nothing that links them?’
‘There’s no link been found yet, but we’re looking for it. There has to be one,’ Greg sighs. At that moment every phone in the room goes off, signalling the receiving of a text message. There was only one word written across every screen.
Wrong!
‘If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them,’ Donovan rolls her eyes.
‘Just says, “Wrong.”’
‘Yeah, well, just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I’m going to bring this session to an end.’
‘But if they’re suicides, what are you investigating?’
God, these people just don’t get the hint.
Grace sits back as the conference continues, the sentences of her colleagues and the reporters all blurring into one as she struggles to care enough about dealing with the press. She may not like Sally but she certainly thanks whatever higher power is out there that it is Donovan that deals with the media.
‘We’ve got our best people investigating—’
Wrong!
Grace smirks as she glances at her phone screen. This must be the famous Sherlock Holmes that Greg had been telling her about when she transferred a few months ago. She had never met the man but judging by the way Anderson and Donovan speak of him, she has a feeling that he couldn’t be too bad considering he irks them in the same way she does.
‘One more question,’ Sally informs the reporters.
‘Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?’
‘I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered,’ Greg explains.
‘Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?’
‘Don’t take the poison,’ Grace answers.
‘Daily Mail,’ Sally mumbles under her breath in warning.
‘Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be—’ Greg is cut off once more as all the mobiles trill their text alerts.
Wrong!
However, this time on Greg’s phone, he receives another message.
You know where to find me.
SH
‘Thank you,’ Lestrade ends the press conference.
‘You’ve got to stop him doing that,’ Sally complains. ‘He’s making us look like idiots.’
‘Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him.’
Grace smirks as she walks past the two and towards the exit, ready to start her own investigation of the suicides—if you could even call them that. Any human would have to be blind to continue walking the path of ‘serial suicide.’ They are murders, she just doesn’t know how, yet.
Despite all the obvious signs that point to a serial killer, Grace had yet to find any hint of how or why. There was one thing about killers though, they always make a mistake… eventually. The problem though, is waiting for that mistake to be made. How many bodies will turn up before the killer leaves behind a trace? Too many a lot of the time.
Grace knows how killers work; she’d been this career for a while now. But even despite that, her childhood had been one filled of late nights in her dad’s office at the police station. Reading books and watching documentaries written and filmed by professionals since such a young age. She was quick to complete university, graduating earlier than most. Now, Grace wouldn’t call herself a genius, she would simply say she works hard, perhaps too hard in the grand scheme of things. Burning out was not something infrequent, learning to persevere was the difficult part of it all.
She had been staring at these files for hours, the words had started to go blurry. God, she needed a cigarette, a coffee, something to keep her from pulling her hair out. Something to occupy the mind so that her thoughts wouldn’t. The shrill ringing of her phone is what finally brought her back to the real world.
Greg Lestrade
‘There’s been another one.’ Grace states rather that inquires to the man on the other side of the call.
‘Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.’
‘Be there shortly.’
A monotonous beep indicates the end of the call, as well as the end of being stuck at her desk in a hopeless back and forth of words and papers. Now the real fun starts, it’s time to catch a killer.
It was only early in the night, eight o’clock to be precise. A building and its vicinity had been blocked off by red and blue lights, police tape lined corner to corner. It seemed most of the crew was already here. Had they accomplished anything though? That is the question. Grace approaches the building, slowing her pace and coming to a halt after seeing a fuss at the entrance.
‘Quite clear. And is your wife away long?’ A tall man questions Anderson at the doorway. He has fair skin with dark curls, high cheekbones sharp as knives. His eyes a grateful victim to central heterochromia, beautifully green in the centre, fading out to a cold and calculating blue.
Ah, this is Sherlock Holmes.
Grace struggles to hold in her snicker as she listens in to the conversation, it seems he was as observant as she had heard. Although, it didn’t take much brain power to deduce Anderson was cheating on his wife.
‘Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that,’ Anderson sneers.
‘Your deodorant told me that.’
‘My deodorant?’
‘It’s for men,’ Sherlock mocks.
‘Of course, it’s for men! I’m wearing it.’
‘So is Donovan. Oh, and I think it just vaporised. Excuse me.’ Grace smirks as she pushes past the quarrelling men. Intrigued blue eyes watching as her form recedes into the building.
‘Whatever you’re trying to imply Carter! —’ Anderson calls out to the woman, but she was too far to hear it.
‘Nothing is being implied,’ Sherlock nudges past Anderson, stopping to look Sally up and down. ‘And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.’ With a smug smile, Sherlock enters the building, his new flatmate, John Watson, following close behind.
Grace was already upstairs examining the body. Her mind starts running a marathon, exploring all the details, discovering different conclusions. The dead woman sure did love pink… pink nails, pink coat.
Peculiar. Underside of the collar is wet. Rache… German, revenge? No. Rachet? Absolutely not. Ah, Rachel. Who is Rachel? She wrote it with her left hand, so she must be... there’s a wedding ring—
‘—hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her. Grace, found anything?’ Greg asks as he enters the room.
‘A bit, but I’m missing something.’ She stands, taking a step back from the body. Pulling the gloves from her hands, Grace turns to see that Sherlock Holmes and his friend had joined them.
‘Sherlock, Doctor Watson, this is Grace Carter, best detective on our team,’ Greg introduces.
‘Best?’ Grace watches Sherlock’s eyes squint as he observes her. Up and down. She’s more than interested to know if he can tell her entire life story as she has heard from others. Actually, she was observing him herself.
Straight posture. His clothes are neat, crisp. Shirt slightly crinkled, only because it seems a size too small. He doesn’t like things out of place unless it’s his own mess. And those eyes… so cold but so captivating. He’s hiding a lot behind them. There’s a loneliness—
‘Intriguing…’ Sherlock mumbles.
‘What is?’ Greg questions.
‘Nothing,’ he snaps out of his daze. ‘Now, let’s have a look. Shut up.’
‘I didn’t say anything?’
‘You were thinking, it’s annoying.’
John and Greg share a surprised look while Sherlock steps forward, beginning to examine the body. Grace watches as his eyes flicker everywhere, unbelievably quick. Only a few moments of silence pass before Sherlock is standing back up, pulling off his gloves.
‘Got anything?’ Greg asks.
‘Not much.’ Sherlock takes out his phone, using it to search something up. Meanwhile Anderson appears in the doorway.
‘She’s German. “Rache,” it’s German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something…’
‘Yes, thank you for your input,’ Sherlock slams the door in his face, still typing away on his phone.
‘So, she’s German?’
‘Of course she’s not. She isn’t from London though,’ Grace answers Greg. Sherlock pulls his phone down, staring deeply at the female detective.
‘Coat?’ She watches a brow rise on his face as he questions her.
‘Coat.’
‘Intended to stay in London for one night…’ Sherlock trails off, turning his attention from Grace to Greg and John. ‘Before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.’
‘Sorry, obvious?’ John’s eyes appear to pop out of his head.
‘What about the message though?’ Greg joins in with his astonishment.
‘Doctor Watson, Detective Carter, what do you think?’
‘Of the message?’
‘Of the body. You’re a medical man, no?’ Grace questions the doctor.
‘We have a whole team outside,’ Greg scolds.
‘I don’t like them.’
‘They won’t work with me,’ Sherlock is blunt in his response.
‘I’m breaking every rule just letting you in here, Sherlock.’
‘Yes, because you need me.’ Lestrade stares at Sherlock for only a moment before lowering his eyes in surrender.
‘Yes, I do. God help me.’
‘Doctor Watson.’
‘Hm?’ John looks over to Greg for permission to assess the body.
‘Oh, do as he says. Help yourself,’ Lestrade exits the room. ‘Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.’
John and Sherlock move to crouch by the body, the doctor painfully leaning on his cane. Grace entertains herself, fiddling with her fingers while they whisper quickly to each other in hushed voices.
‘Yeah, well, this is more fun.’
‘Fun? There is a woman lying dead.’
‘Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.’
Lestrade walks back into the room, standing beside Grace in the doorway. He gives her a look and she shrugs in response.
‘Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.’
‘You know what it was. You’ve read the papers.’
‘What, she’s one of the suicides? The fourth…?’
‘Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got,’ Lestrade cuts in.
‘Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.’
‘Suitcase?’
‘Suitcase,’ Grace murmurs. ‘That’s what I was missing.’
‘Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up,’ Greg huffs.
‘He’s not,’ Grace cuts in. ‘Her wedding ring. It’s got to be at least ten years old. Her necklace, earrings, all clean. But not the ring. State of her marriage.’
‘Yes…’ Sherlock is now staring directly at Grace as he speaks. She was quick, almost as quick as him.
How interesting.
‘The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ John admires both the detectives. ‘Sorry.’
‘Cardiff?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Sherlock scrunches his nose.
‘It’s not obvious to me.’
‘Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.’
‘May I take this one?’ Grace steps in, interrupting Sherlock.
‘Be… my… guest.’
Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto her smaller form, waiting for the words to leave her mouth. Where had this woman come from? She wasn’t here three months ago on the last case he took with Scotland Yard. Not to mention he couldn’t read anything about her past the obvious lack of sleep, the slight discolouration under her eyes proving the fact. She had noticed everything he had about the crime scene… she is unreadable... she is a mystery waiting to be solved. The woman is a lack of boredom in which he’d keep documented in his mind palace for later.
‘Her coat. It’s damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London during that time. Under her coat collar is also damp, she turned it up against the wind. Umbrella in her left-hand pocket is dry, and unused.’ Grace paces back and forth beside the body as she speaks. ‘The wind was too strong for it. Now that Mr Holmes has previously mentioned it, I see what I missed. I missed her suitcase, which means she came a decent distance. But her coat is still wet. Where has there been heavy rain and strong winds within that travel time? Cardiff.’
‘That’s… fantastic.’
‘Yes. Quite… remarkable.’ Oh, those eyes. They studied her so deeply. Grace wanted to run and hide from the piercing gaze of the tall consulting detective. But her physicality did not betray her, remaining strong in her stance, continuing to appear unbothered.
‘Not too bad yourself, Mr Holmes.’
‘Please, Sherlock is fine.’
John and Lestrade exchange a look once more, completely confused by the odd situation in front of them. Two stone faced detectives staring into each other’s souls with such intrigue. An exchange that Greg never thought he’d see, Sherlock… complimenting someone? It couldn’t be. ‘Why are you both saying suitcase?’
Sherlock spins on his feet. ‘Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is.’
‘She was writing Rachel?’
‘No, she was leaving an angry note in German,’ Grace rolls her eyes.
‘Of course, she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is why did she wait until she was dying to write it?
‘How do you know she had a suitcase?’
‘Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand,’ Sherlock explains. ‘Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.’
‘So, where is it? Did Anderson take it?’ Hands on hips, Grace moves to open the door that had previously been slammed in said man’s face.
‘There wasn’t a case.’
Sherlock’s stare narrows, ‘say that again.’
‘There wasn’t a case. There was never any suitcase.’
‘Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?’
Lestrade follows Sherlock down the stairs. ‘Sherlock, there was no case!’
‘But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them.’
‘Right, yeah, thanks! And…?’
‘It’s murder, all of them,’ Grace walks downstairs. ‘Unsure of how yet, been exploring the files. But they’re not suicides. They’re killings—serial ones.’
‘We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those,’ Sherlock claps. His excitement unbefitting of the current situation. ‘There’s always something to look forward to.’
‘Why are you both saying that?’
‘Her case, Greg. Where is it?’ Grace, now standing beside Sherlock on the lower level of the stairs.
‘Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case,’ Sherlock has a sudden epiphany. ‘So, the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.’
‘She could have check into a hotel, left her case there?’ Doctor Watson pitches in for the first time in a while.
‘No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never had left any hotel with her hair still looking… Oh. Oh!’
‘Sherlock?’
Lestrade leans further over the railing, desperate to hear whatever realisation Sherlock has come to. ‘What is it, what?’
‘Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.’
‘We can’t just wait!’
‘Oh, we’re done waiting! Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!’
‘Of course, yeah – but what mistake!?’
‘Pink!’
Grace watches as Sherlock rushes out the building, a whispering voice in the back of her head growing louder, eventually shouting at her to ‘follow!’ For once in her life, she decided to listen, a split decision to do what she actually wants. Her feet carry her quickly after him, it took only seconds to catch up to his speedily walking form heading down the street.
‘You’re following?’
‘You’re looking for the case.’
Oh, I’m going to be in so much trouble for this. Forgive me, please don’t fire me, Greg.
‘A correct observation, but as to why you’re following?’
‘That is a question I would think you already have the answer to.’
Sherlock stops walking for a second, his gloved hands moving from his pockets to clasp behind his back. His taller form looked down at the shorter woman. ‘There is a lot about you that I thought I would have the answers to.’
‘One, consider me your get out of jail free card. You find the case without me; Sally and Anderson try to pin the murders on you.’ Grace starts walking again, every two of her steps equalling one of his. ‘Two, you’re aware of how dull working for Scotland Yard can be, they’d never find the case. Three, curiosity.’
‘Curiosity?’
‘You’re a curious person yourself, surely you understand. This case is intriguing. How does this killer work? How does this killer make a person take the poison? We’re running out of time to figure it out, before long another dead body will be on our doorstep, and I will be blaming it on the incompetence of Scotland Yard,’ Grace sighs. ‘I understand the steps they need to take, the protocols. But between you and me, things could be solved so much more efficiently if they turned a blind eye to the rule book, if only sometimes, which I’m thankful they’ve done this time by calling you in. Now, tell me your thought process.’
‘The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely.’ Sherlock turns down a back street, not bothering to look back, knowing the female detective would be following. ‘So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. If we check every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens...’
‘…and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed,’ Grace follows along with Sherlock’s thought process. ‘Back street skips.’
‘You continue to astound me, Detective Carter.’
She watches as Sherlock begins to search around the first skip, moving to help. ‘Please, Grace. Should I call you Sherlock, I think it only fair. I was never one for formalities anyway.’
‘Not this one,’ he announces, stepping back and walking onwards.
‘I heard you can tell everything about a person at first glance, have I been lied to? Greg claims you call yourself a “Master of Deduction.”’
‘I can tell things about people that not even they know.’
‘Well, can you deduce me?’
‘Most people tell me to piss off, yet you’re openly asking me to do so?’
‘I told you. I am a curious individual.’
Sherlock’s head tilts slightly to the side, as he tries once more to deduce things about the woman. But again, he was left with hardly anything. It was infuriating, and yet so exciting. ‘You’re tired.’
‘Yes, but that is common knowledge. I expected to be astonished.’
‘You’re a mystery to me. And it’s maddening.’
‘Well, “All great experience has a guarded entrance and a windowless facade.”’
‘Robert Grudin, 1997,’ Sherlock immediately recognises the quote.
‘Precisely. You can’t deduce anything about me because I won’t let you. Becoming aware of someone’s strength is to find their weakness.’
‘You seem quite adept in the nature of observation yourself. What do you see?’
‘I doubt my skills are anywhere near as I’ve heard yours to be. Although, I can say that you probably won’t enjoy hearing what I think.’
‘Did I not just say people mostly tell me to piss off? I’m quite aware of the consequences. Nobody likes to hear of their hidden complexities so easily read by another.’
‘You have very straight posture; you carry yourself tall because it makes you feel less vulnerable. Your clothes, they’re neat, ironed regularly. But your shirt is slightly crinkled because you buy a size too small. Why? Because you like the way it hugs you. It feels affectionate, something I think you’ve forced yourself to believe you don’t want, but subconsciously crave. You don’t like things out of place, unless it’s your own mess, even then the mess is somewhat organised to your liking.’ Grace could mention that loneliness, that pain in his eyes. But she won’t for the sake of the hiddenly vulnerable man digging through a skip in front of her.
‘I don’t need affection,’ Sherlock spits.
‘Ah, yes. Sociopath. You don’t have a heart, I’ve heard.’ Grace smirks as she sees a flash of pink behind the large bin. ‘But I don’t have to look very hard to know that isn’t quite true.’ She reaches an arm behind the skip, pulling the case out with little struggle. ‘Found it.’
Sherlock reaches out to grab the case from her, ignoring her previous statement. Pulling it away she hums a little ‘ah-ah.’
‘How do you expect me to investigate if you won’t hand over the case?’
‘Where do you live?’
‘221B Baker Street.’
‘Closer than me, let’s go. We have a case to investigate,’ Grace begins walking to the main road for a taxi, pink case trailing behind her.
‘Why must you insist on coming with me? I am perfectly capable, even more so than you of solving this.’
‘Perhaps, and I don’t doubt it for a second. But I have jurisdiction, something in which you don’t.’
Sherlock’s steps fall into sync with Grace’s, knowing he won’t be able to shake her off. ‘Gage won’t be happy.’
‘I think you mean Greg. And he’ll survive. Taxi!’
The two climb into the backseat of a taxi, informing the driver of their destination. They sit in silence for a moment. Grace well aware that Sherlock had no urge to start a conversation.
‘Should I tell you something about me, to make things fair? Even out the playing field.’
‘No. If I don’t figure it out myself, I don’t care.’ Sherlock is blunt, not once turning his head from looking out the foggy window. ‘There is one thing I have figured out though.’
‘That is?’
‘You get bored.’
‘Everyone gets bored.’
‘Not enough to follow a stranger down different back streets to pick up a murder victim’s suitcase.’
‘You called me a mystery, didn’t you?’ Grace grins. The streetlights casted a light glow through the window connecting with Sherlock’s cheekbones, casting a shadow across his face.
‘I did.’
‘You’re a mystery yourself. I’m a detective, a bored one, a curious one.’ Sherlock’s attention finally shifts, casting his gaze at the woman in the seat across from him. Curiosity meeting curiosity. Blue eyes meeting grey eyes. ‘Such are you. Let’s do our jobs and stop another body from showing up, yeah?’ Grace doesn’t continue to elaborate, but he didn’t need her to because he understood.
He is a challenge to her, just as she is to him. Something that intellectual minds gravitate towards. There was a comfort in finding someone that understands your thought process. Someone that could keep up. And then there was John Watson, Sherlock’s mind was running rampant. A man that craves danger, and a woman that seeks mystery. Perhaps he finally found the correct people to surround himself with, maybe he could finally belong somewhere.
No, I don’t need friends. He was simply intrigued, that is all. Intrigued in the face of mystery.
The rest of the taxi ride passed in silence. Both detectives spending the remaining period of time lost within their own minds. Neither had even realised they had reached Sherlock’s flat until the taxi driver let them know of the cost. Sherlock was already walking inside with the case, leaving Grace to pay. Which she did deem fair considering she forcibly tagged along.
‘Hm, endearing,’ she hummed, observing the sight. A small café, Speedy’s, was beside the flat building. It appears to be a nice place to live. Convenient.
Grace enters and walks upstairs into 221B. Sherlock had discarded his coat and suit jacket, his white button-up sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Forearms exposed; three nicotine patches stuck to alabaster skin. He dug through the contents of the pink suitcase, sat with his legs spread on a black leather chair by the fireplace.
What a sight for sore eyes. Snap out of it.
‘Smoker?’ Grace questions.
‘Trying not to be.’
‘Makes two of us. Three patches though?’
‘Three patch problem.’
Grace moves to sit on the armchair opposite Sherlock. Looking through the contents of the bag herself. ‘Found anything?’
‘It’s more what I haven’t found.’
‘Hm?’
‘Grab my phone. It’s in my jacket pocket by the door.’
‘Did your parents never teach you manners?’ Grace asked, doing as he said anyway. ‘Here.’
Sherlock doesn’t look up from his position, hands clasped together under his chin. ‘Text John, “Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.” Don’t forget to sign my initials at the bottom.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Tell him it could be dangerous and to come if inconvenient anyway.’
Grace’s own phone dings. She lifts it up to inspect the message, knowing already who it will be. And as she thought, Greg Lestrade.
Come back to Scotland Yard, right now.
‘And that is my signal to go back and receive a scolding.’ Phone returning to pocket, Grace walks to the entrance. Blue eyes watching her every move unbeknownst to her. ‘If I leave the case here for you to further investigate, you promise not to run off with it?’
‘I assume you’ll be coming back with the Detective Inspector the next time I see you,’ Sherlock lowers his hands, letting them cross over his lap.
‘I’ll stall him as long as I can. You’d best keep me updated, Sherlock Holmes.’
‘How do you expect me to do that? I don’t have your number.’
‘Your excuses fall to deaf ears.’ Grace holds her phone out, shaking it at him. Walking downstairs she calls back out, loud enough for him to hear. ‘I don’t think you had the numbers of everyone at the press conference either.’
Sherlock grinned to himself at her words. She was a smart woman; he’d allow himself to admit that much. Maybe he’d even allow himself to admit her beauty had he not known it to be construct based entirely on childhood impressions. One thing he knew for sure: Grace and John are both completely different mysteries waiting to be solved.
‘You just decided you’d run off from the crime scene?’ Greg scolds Grace. She sat across from him, on a chair at the other side of his desk. ‘I know you’ve been off lately, but—’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it, Greg. People are dying and you’re all being awfully slow about trying to do anything to fix it.’
‘You followed Sherlock, didn’t you?’
‘What about it? You’ve said so yourself, he’s the best out there, and you need him.’
‘That doesn’t mean you just run off instead of doing your job.’
‘I was doing my job, and I was doing it a hell of a lot quicker than anybody else here.’ Grace taps her finger on Greg’s desk in frustration. ‘Who found the case? Me and Sherlock. I’m doing you a favour. I don’t care who sticks their name on the report.’
‘You found the case?’
Oops.
Grace had flaws, of course she did. But one she hates the most about herself? Her inability to not spit things out that she shouldn’t whenever she’s angry.
‘Yes.’ Better to admit it now.
‘Where is it?’
‘With Sherlock, but please, just give him a few hours at least to figure it out.’
‘Why should I? —Grace! This is not how it works. I know you like to work on your own and differently to everyone else, but you do not just give away evidence to people!’
‘Greg, please,’ Grace takes a deep breath. ‘You know my judgment is better than anybody else’s here. As much as you, and I, hate to admit it, Sherlock is what we need to solve this case.’
‘He’s got two hours,’ Greg finally agrees after a moment of thought. ‘After that we’re going to his flat.’
Ding
‘Got a text?’ Both Lestrade and Grace know well who it is. She doesn’t get texts, there’s nobody she really talks to. Apart from work colleagues.
Got a lead.
SH
Attached to the message was an address, a restaurant on Northumberland Street.
‘Go, but I’ll be expecting to be updated,’ Greg sighs, slumping in his seat. He may not be a ‘Master of Deduction,’ like Sherlock, but he wasn’t stupid. He knows Sherlock is a great man, and perhaps Grace is what he needs to be a good one. And potentially, Sherlock may just be what Grace needs. So, for once, he will turn a blind eye to the dos and don’ts.
‘Yes, sir,’ Grace fake salutes before exiting his office and the building, rushing downstairs to get a taxi.
There is a welcoming warmth that encases Grace’s body as she leaves the icy streets and enters the restaurant. A shiver runs down her spine at the sudden temperature change. She gazed around, not taking long to notice Sherlock and John sitting at a booth beside the entrance. Pulling up a chair, and removing her coat, she sits across the table from Sherlock, and beside John.
‘Detective Carter?’ John questions, not expecting to see the woman here.
‘Evening.’
‘Wh—’
‘I texted her,’ Sherlock answers the question on John’s mind.
‘I told him to keep me updated, lest he get into trouble with Scotland Yard.’
‘George knows of the suitcase?’
‘Greg, and yes. But you’ve got time.’
John shakes his head, the poor man struggling to keep up with any events of the day. The clock hands were turning a lot faster than normal, and 6pm had been quick to become 11pm. He decides changing the subject might be the best way to involve himself in the conversation. ‘People don’t have archenemies.’
‘Sorry?’
‘In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.’
‘Doesn’t it? How dull.’ Sherlock’s line of sight does not stray from across the street.
‘So, who did I meet?’
Ignoring John’s question, Sherlock responds with his own. ‘What do real people have, then, in there “real lives?”’
‘Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don’t like… girlfriends, boyfriends…’
‘Yes, well, as I was saying, dull.’
‘You don’t have a girlfriend, then?’
‘Girlfriend? No, not really my area.’
‘Mm,’ John pauses. ‘Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.’
‘I know it’s fine.’ Sherlock’s eyes finally move from the street and to lock onto John at his insinuation.
‘So, you’ve got a boyfriend the—’
‘No.’
Grace listens to the conversation, trying to stop herself from giggling. Lips grinning, knowing full well the misunderstanding between the two that it taking place between her.
‘Right, okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.’
‘John, um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…’
‘No. No, I’m not asking. No,’ John shakes his head. ‘I’m just saying, it’s all fine.’
‘Good. Thank you.’
John turns, giving Grace the most bewildered look she has ever seen, and she couldn’t help the small laugh finally pushing through the restraint of her lips. Sherlock snaps his head to look at her, before quickly turning back to look outside.
‘What about you, Grace?’ John asks. ‘Boyfriend, girlfriend?’
‘No, no. Not at the moment. I only moved here a few months ago. Also, not really an area I’m great at.’ If she couldn’t even love and care for herself, how could Grace ever care and love for another? The feeling was foreign, she longed for it, but found it impossible to find.
‘Oh? Where are you originally from?’
‘Around…’ Grace trails off, not wanting to discuss further.
‘Look across the street. Taxi.’ Sherlock interrupts, saving them all from a lot of awkwardness. ‘Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?’
‘That’s him?’
‘Don’t stare.’
‘You’re staring.’
‘We can’t all stare.’
All three grab their coats before hurrying out of the restaurant. The second the cab starts to drive away, Sherlock rushes forwards, almost getting hit by a car. Luckily, they slam on the breaks and narrowly avoid him.
‘Sorry!’ John yells to the driver. ‘I’ve got the cab number.’
‘Good for you. Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights,’ Sherlock lists off quickly. He takes off in a sprint, Grace and John quick to react, chasing after him.
They run through buildings, up sets after sets of stairs, across roofs, and back down again. Sherlock leading them around every corner and down every back alley. Eventually, they intersect the taxi. Pulling open the door, Sherlock observes the man in the back. ‘No, teeth, tan. What, Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’ John asks.
‘The luggage,’ Grace informs.
‘It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?’
‘Sorry, are you guys the police?’
‘Yeah. Everything all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Welcome to London,’ Sherlock says sarcastically, walking away from the cab, clearly frustrated.
‘Uh, any problems just let us know,’ John closes the taxi door. ‘Basically, just a cab that happened to slow down.’
‘Basically.’
‘Not the murderer?’
‘Not the murderer, no,’ Grace answers.
‘Wrong country, good alibi.’
‘As they go.’
‘Hey, where-where did you get this?’ John pants, still exhausted, pulling a badge from Sherlock’s hands. ‘Right. Detective Inspector Lestrade?’
‘Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.’ Grace and John share a glance, both starting to laugh at his words, and the situation as a whole. ‘What?’
‘Nothing, just… “Welcome to London.”’
Sherlock grins at the two before he notices the American man talking to a police officer by the corner. ‘Got your breath back?’
‘We’re ready when you are.’
‘That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.’ John admits, laughing as the trio stumble into 221 Baker Street. They lean against the entrance wall, panting from the long distance they had just ran.
‘And you invaded Afghanistan,’ Sherlock laughs.
‘That wasn’t just me. And why aren’t we back at the restaurant?’
‘They can keep and eye out, it was a long shot anyway.’
‘So, what were we doing there?’
‘Proving a point, from my observation,’ Grace smirks, now noticing John was without his walking stick. Also, him having ran many kilometres.
‘Precisely,’ Sherlock grins at her.
‘What point?’
‘You. Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says the man at the door.’
A knock echoes through the hallway, John glancing between Sherlock and Grace before walking over to answer the door.
‘What I don’t get is why you messaged me?’ Grace turns to Sherlock. ‘If it was a “long shot.”’
‘Because,’ he grins.
‘Because?’
‘Because you’re bored.’
‘That’s not why.’ Grace watches a brow raise on Sherlock’s face, clearly, he wasn’t expecting her to see through his lies. ‘I know a lie when I hear one. You want to try and deduce me. But you can’t, can you?’
‘It’s infuriating.’
‘I try my best.’
‘Sherlock, what have you done.’ An older woman in a purple dress comes into view. Her worried and panicky stature informing everything that something wasn’t quite right.
‘Mrs Hudson?’ One thing that Grace noted was the concern in Sherlock’s voice, and the man had the audacity to say he has no heart, that he doesn’t feel.
‘Upstairs.’
The three rush up the stairs, Sherlock skipping two at a time with his long legs. He opens the door to 221B, finding Greg sitting in his seat, and other Scotland Yard officers searching the flat.
‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock demands.
‘Well, I knew you’d fine the case. I’m not stupid. Plus, Grace slipped up and told me. You’re lucky she convinced me to lay off as long as I did.’
‘You can’t just break into my flat.’
‘And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.’
‘Well, what do you call this.’
‘It’s a drugs bust.’
Oh Greg, that’s low, very low. Grace shakes her head, stepping further into the room to make herself known to Greg and the other officers.
‘Seriously? This guy, a junkie?’ John asks, bewildered. ‘Have you met him?’
‘John.’ Sherlock addresses sternly.
‘I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational.’
‘John, you probably want to shut up now.’
‘Yeah, but come on… No?’
‘What?’
‘You?’
‘Shut up!’ Sherlock shouts, turning back to Lestrade. ‘I’m not your sniffer dog.’
‘No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog.’
‘What, An— Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?’
Anderson peeps his head out from behind a cupboard in the kitchen. ‘Oh, I volunteered.’
‘They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.’
‘Are you serious, Greg? You told me you’d come for the case in two hours, not set up a drugs bust.’ Grace’s annoyance begins to show. All of this was highly unnecessary, and frankly, just mean.
‘Yes well, you didn’t tell me you were running off from the crime scene to find the case with this guy,’ Greg points to Sherlock. ‘So, I guess we both don’t tell each other everything.’
‘Are these human eyes?’ Donovan rounds the corner, holding up a jar.
‘Put those back!’
‘They were in the microwave!’
‘It’s an experiment!’ Sherlock spits.
‘Keep looking, guys.’ Lestrade orders. ‘Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down. That goes for the both of you.’
‘This is childish.’
‘Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?’
‘Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?’
‘It stops being pretend if we find anything,’ Greg stands, coming face to face with Sherlock, although slightly shorter.
‘I am clean!’
‘Is your flat? All of it?’
‘I don’t even smoke.’ Sherlock tugs up his sleeve, a nicotine patch stuck to his forearm.
‘Neither do I,’ Lestrade pulls up his own sleeve. ‘So, let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.’
‘Who is she?’ Grace inserts herself back into the conversation.
‘Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.’
Sherlock tugs his sleeve back down. ‘Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?’
‘Never mind that. We found the case,’ Anderson points. ‘According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.’
‘I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.’ Sherlock’s head snaps around. ‘You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘Excellent! How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.’
‘Well, I doubt it since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.’
‘No that’s… that’s not right. How? Why would she do that?’
‘Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup – sociopath, I’m seeing it now,’ Anderson rolls his eyes.
‘She didn’t think about her daughter, Anderson,’ Grace spits, fed up with his shit. ‘She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails, while she was dying. It took effort, and it would have hurt.’
‘Sherlock said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he… I don’t know, talks to them?’ John offers. ‘Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.’
‘Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?’ Sherlock pauses after his words. ‘Not good?’ He turns to John.
‘Bit not good, yeah.’
‘Yeah, but if you were dying… if you’d been murdered; in your very last few seconds what would you say?’
‘“Please, God, let me live.”’
‘Oh, use your imagination!’
‘I don’t have to.’
‘Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever. Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers – she was clever. She’s trying to tell us something.’
Mrs Hudson stands at the doorway. ‘Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.’
‘I didn’t order a taxi. Go away.’
Odd. Grace closes her eyes, falling into thought.
‘Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?’
‘It’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.’
‘But they’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers.’
‘Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.’
‘What? My face is?!’
‘Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back.’ Greg demands.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’
‘Your back, now, please!’
‘Come on, think. Quick!’
‘What about your taxi?’
‘Mrs Hudson! Oh…’ Sherlock’s brain clicks. ‘Ah! She was clever, clever, yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him.’
‘When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer,’ Grace opens her eyes, finishing Sherlock’s explanation.
‘But how?’
‘What? What do you mean, how? Rachel!’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘Don’t you see? Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.’
John is the first to speak amongst all the vacant faces. ‘Then what is it?’
‘John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address.’
‘Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk.’
Sherlock sits at his desk, laptop open. ‘Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s email enabled. So, there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address. And all together now, the password is?’
‘Rachel.’
‘We can read her e-mails. So what?’
‘Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lost it, you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.’
‘Unless he got rid of it.’
‘We know he didn’t.’
‘Come on, come on. Quickly!’
‘Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver…’
‘Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother? We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We’re gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.’
‘We’ll just have a map reference, not a name.’
‘It’s a start!’
‘Sherlock…’
‘It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had.’
‘Sherlock…’
‘What is it? Quickly, where?’
‘It’s here. It’s in two two one Baker Street,’ John informs.
The phone is here, how? I’m missing something, what am I missing? Grace felt like hitting herself across the head, scratching the skin from her arms. It was in front of her, she knows it, but she can’t put her finger on what she’s missing. ‘How can it be here? How?’
‘Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,’ Lestrade suggested.
‘What, and I didn’t notice it? Me? I didn’t notice?’ Sherlock spits.
‘Anyway, we texted him and he called back.’
‘Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim…’ Lestrade ignores the facts.
‘Who do we trust, even if we don’t know them?’
‘Who passes unnoticed?’ Grace adds to Sherlocks food for thought.
‘Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?’
‘Oh—’ Grace whispers, but only Sherlock hears. She steps backwards slowly, out of the room. Step, then step, she walks down the stairs and out of 221B. At the same time, Sherlock’s phone dings with a message from an unknown number.
COME WITH ME.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Grace confronts the old man. He stands in front of his cab, pink phone in hand.
‘Took you ‘while. But then again you did surprise me, keeping up with the great Sherlock ‘olmes.’ The old man glances over Grace’s shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil. Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.’
‘I didn’t order a taxi,’ Sherlock’s deep voice sounds from behind Grace. He walks forwards, standing beside her with his hands in his coat pockets.
‘Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.’
‘You’re the cabbie, the one that stopped outside Northumberland Street.’
‘It was you, not your passenger,’ Grace observes.
‘See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s like you’re invisible. Just the back of an ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer.’
‘Is this a confession.’
‘Oh, yeah. And I’ll tell you want else; if you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise.’
‘Why?’ Sherlock asks.
‘‘Cause you’re not gonna do that.’
‘Am I not?’
‘I didn’t kill those four people, Mr ‘olmes, Detective Carter. I spoke to ‘em… and they killed themselves. An’ if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing. I’ll never tell you what I said.’
‘No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.’
‘An’ you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?’
‘If I wanted to understand, what would I do?’
Grace steps towards Sherlock, placing a hand on his arm. ‘Sherlock—’
‘Let me take you for a ride.’
‘So, you can kill me too?’
‘I don’t wanna kill you, Mr ‘olmes. I’m gonna talk to you… and then you’re gonna kill yourself.’
‘Sherlock.’ Grace warns again, his face becoming far too curious for her liking. ‘Don’t.’
‘You too, Detective. Get in the cab, come for a ride.’
‘I don’t think I want to.’
‘I ‘on’t really care what you want.’ The cabbie moves his jacket to the side, flashing the sight of a pistol.
Don’t let him know you’re onto him.
Shame Grace didn’t have her own on her person at the present time. Both Sherlock and Grace get into the backseat of the taxi. ‘Phone up ‘ere please, Detective.’ Grace takes her phone from her pocket, placing it on the console of the car. The engine starts, and they’re on a ride.
‘How did you find me?’ Sherlock questions, inwardly judging the driver’s route.
‘Oh, I recognised ya, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes!’ The cabbie exclaims. ‘I was warned about you. Both of ya, actually. I’ve been on your website, too, Mr ‘olmes. Brilliant stuff! Loved it.’
‘Who warned you?’ Grace crossed her legs, deciding it best to be comfortable while potentially heading to her death.
‘Just someone out there who’s noticed.’
Sherlock sits forwards in his seat, eyes brushing over every detail of the cab. ‘Who? Who would notice me?’
‘You’re too modest, Mr ‘olmes.’
‘I’m really not.’
The cabbie glances at his passengers through the mirror. ‘You’ve got yourself a fan.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘That’s all you’re gonna know… in this lifetime.’
‘Wow, how ominous,’ Grace rolls her eyes.
The rest of the trip passes in silence. Each set of eyes wandering out each window, staring into every mirror to avoid surprise. The cabbie gets out of the car, walking around to open Grace’s door.
‘How gentlemanly.’
‘Where are we?’
‘You know every street in London, Mr ‘olmes. You know exactly where we are.’
‘Roland-Kerr Further Education College.’
‘Why here?’ Grace asks.
‘It’s open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie; you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.’
‘And you just walk your victims in? How?’ Sherlock’s brows furrow on his face, his eyes darting between Grace and the cabbie. He pulls out a pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Oh, dull.’
‘Don’t worry. It gets better.’
‘You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.’
‘I don’t. It’s much better than that,’ the cabbie tucks away his gun. ‘Don’t need this with you, ‘cause you’ll follow me.’
Grace could just run away, take the cab and drive back to Scotland Yard at this moment. Left behind in the car as Sherlock and the cabbie walk into the right-side building. What kind of detective would she be if she left an unarmed man to enter a building alone with a serial killer? She was well aware that Sherlock could look after himself, but her own curiosity needs an excuse. Her own hunt for mystery, and the excessive need to just know. That was the truth behind her rapid footsteps, gradually catching up to the two men in the building.
Lights flickered on in an empty study hall as they entered. Sherlock paced slowly, observing his surroundings.
‘Well, what do you think?’ The cabbie grins. ‘It’s up to you. You’re the ones who’re gonna die here.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Bold of you to assume,’ Grace and Sherlock answer simultaneously.
‘That’s what they all say. Should we talk?’
The cabbie takes a seat at one side of the table, Sherlock turns a chair to sit on the other. Grace, who still stands in the doorway walks over, pulling up a chair beside Sherlock. He was a man lacking empathy, yes. A man who struggles to show his emotions. He didn’t purposefully exude comfort. But there was just something about his tall frame, his intellect, that allowed Grace to feel safe in his presence. Or maybe, just maybe, she was simply comfortable knowing the cabbie couldn’t outsmart him.
‘Bit risky, wasn’t it?’ Sherlock removes his gloves, tucking them in his pocket. ‘Took us away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you.’
‘You call that a risk? Nah. This… is a risk.’ The cabbie lifts a small glass bottle onto the table, containing a singular pill. ‘Oh, I like this bit. 'Cause neither of you get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this.’ Two more bottles are lifted onto the table. ‘Weren’t expecting that? You’re both gonna love this.’
‘Love what?’
‘Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me about it.’
‘My fan?’
‘And yours, Detective Carter. Didn’t think you’d be able to keep up, but ya did.’
‘Your compliments are very backhanded,’ Grace snarks.
‘You are brilliant. You both are. A proper genius though, you are Mr ‘olmes. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you, me, and Detectibe Carter sitting 'ere, why can't people think? Don’t it make you made? Why can’t people just think?’
‘Oh, I see. So, you’re a proper genius too,’ Sherlock mocks.
‘Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever know.’
‘Okay, three bottles. Explain.’
‘There's a good bottle and two bad bottles. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die.’
‘Both bottles are of course identical.’
‘In every way.’
‘And you know which is which.’
‘Course I know.’
‘But we don’t.’
‘Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the ones who choose.’ Words continue to fly back and forth between the two men. Grace listens intently, thoughts racing although she appears to remain calm.
Grace sits forwards in her chair, inspecting the glass bottles thoroughly with her eyes. ‘Why should we choose? We have nothing to go on. There’s nothing in it for us.’
‘I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one, and then, together, we take our medicine.’
‘So basically, two of us die.’
‘Exactly, Detective. Think of it as natural selection.’
‘Nothing about this is natural, old man. I think six feet under is going to be calling for you first.’
‘You don’t believe that do ya? You’ve been ‘ere before, Detective. Tossing up whether to take your medicine or not.’
The racing of Grace’s mind stops only for a split second, thoughts replaced by a single word. How?
Sherlock takes note of the blank expression on her face. His mind formulating its own theories and conclusions. How? How did he miss it, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
‘You of all people should know that you’ve been a lot closer to hell than I ‘ave.’
‘This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice,’ Sherlock cuts in. The tense form of Grace clearly unlikely to respond any further on the topic.
‘And now I’m givin’ you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game.’
‘It’s not a game. It’s chance.’
‘I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this...’ The cabbie pushes two of the bottles forwards. ‘This... is the move. Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.’
A moment of silence washes over the study hall. Grace had taken the time to collect her thoughts, bringing herself back to the present moment. ‘Who told you?’
‘Your fan has known about you a lot longer than you’d think. So, are you ready yet? Ready to play?’
‘Play what?’ Sherlock spits. ‘We each have a thirty-three-point-three percent chance of surviving.’
‘You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I give you the good pill? Or a bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?’
‘Still just chance.’
‘Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.’
‘Luck.’
‘It’s genius. I know ‘ow people think. I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone’s so stupid – even you. Or maybe God just loves me.’
‘Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie.’ Sherlock interlocks his hands and rests his elbows on the table. ‘You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?’
‘Time to play.’
‘Oh, I am playing. This is my turn.’
Grace sits up straight. Was she finally going to witness Sherlock Holmes’ full skill set? Indeed, she was, and that excites her. Her emotions were spiralling at this moment. She is worried, excited, scared, thrilled. A little bit of everything that is slowly going to cause her to overload.
‘There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd dead, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts.’
Oh, he’s good. Much better than her. Grace watches the side of his face with wide eyes as he continues deducing the old cabbie. Once again, his prominent cheekbones casting a mysterious shadow over his face that makes him all the more enticing. He’s like forbidden fruit, so dangerously tempting. Hosting his own set of consequences should you ever take a bite.
‘Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about? Ah... Three years ago. Is that when they told you?’
‘Told me what?’
‘That you’re a dead man walking.’
‘So are you.’
‘You don’t have long, though. Am I right?’
‘Aneurism. Right in ‘ere.’ The cabbie points to his head. ‘Any breath could be my last.’
Grace scoffs. ‘And because you’re dying, you’ve just killed four people?’
‘I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can ‘ave on an aneurism.’
‘No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children,’ Sherlock deduces.
‘Oh. You are good, ain’t you?’
‘But how?’
‘When I die, they wont get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.’
‘Or serial killing.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Surprise me.’
The cabbie leans forward, speaking his sentence slowly. ‘I ‘ave a sponsor.’
‘You have a what?’
‘For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think.’
‘Who’d sponsor a serial killer?’
‘Who’d be a fan of Sherlock ‘olmes? You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that.’
‘What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?’ Grace questions.
‘There’s a name no one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose.’
‘What if we don’t choose? We could just walk out of here,’ Sherlock threatens.
‘You can take the chance, or I can shoot you both in the ‘ead.’ The cabbie lifts his pistol, aiming it directly at Sherlock. ‘Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option.’ Grace and Sherlock share a glance momentarily, little smirks on their faces.
‘I’ll have the gun, please.’
‘I’ll take the gun too.’
‘You’re both sure?’
‘Definitely. The gun.’
‘You don’t want to phone a friend?’
‘The gun.’ The cabbie pulls the trigger but is quick to sigh after realising he’s been discovered. The pistol, not real, but a cigarette lighter instead. He tosses it to the side.
‘I know a real gun when I see one.’
‘None of the others did.’
Grace stands from her chair. ‘Clearly.’
‘Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.’ Sherlock walks to the door but stops at the cabbie’s taunting.
‘Just before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?’
‘Of course. Child’s play.’
‘Well, which one, then? Which one would you ‘ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on! Play the game.’
‘Sherlock—’ Grace whispers warningly for only the tall man to hear. ‘Don’t fall for it.’
Sherlock ignores Grace, walking back over to the table, he picks up the bottle that is closest to the cab driver. Grace rolls her eyes. Could this man ever just listen? A bit hypocritical of her to think actually.
‘Oh, interesting. So, what d’you think? Shall we?’
Grace watches as both Sherlock and the cabbie take the pills out of the bottles. She is quick in her movements, walking over to Sherlock, grabbing his arm in an attempt to pull him towards the exit. ‘Sherlock, come on. It’s not worth it. We can have the pills tested if you’re so desperate to know.’
‘What do you think? Can you beat me?’ The cabbie continues to taunt, ignoring Grace. ‘Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you… So clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it? Still the addict.’
Sherlock was much stronger than Grace. Lifting his arm to inspect the pill under the light, her hands falling in the process. He didn’t even bat an eyelid, like she didn’t exist in that moment. Just a speck in an indifferent universe. Hopeless, little Grace, she couldn’t save the ones she loved, what makes her think she could save someone who chases the danger?
You think you can stop him? You think he cares about what you want? Nobody cares about you, never did, never will. Stop trying. Get over yourself. Pathetic, and weak, is all you are.
Shut up.
‘But this… this is what you’re really addicted to. You’ll do anything… anything at all… top stop being bored. You’re not bored now, are you? Innit good?’
Just as Sherlock was about to place the pill in his mouth, Grace understands that he truly will go through with this. Ignoring the voice in her head, the instincts kick in. She forcefully slaps the pill out of his hands. At the same time, a gunshot rings out and the cabbie falls to the floor.
Sherlock rushes over, inspecting the gunshot in the window. He steps are quick to carry him back over to Grace.
‘You’re not hurt?’ He asks, hands grabbing each of her shoulders. She shakes her head, unable to voice her thoughts as her heart pounds against her chest. The gunshot having startled her, unaware of any backup that had been heading their way.
Sherlock scurries around, finding the pill that had been slapped from his hand. He stands over the cabbie, holding it in front of his face. ‘Was I right? I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right!?’ When he doesn’t receive a response, Sherlock harshly throws the pill at the dying man’s face. ‘Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan? I want a name.’
‘No.’
‘Give us a name,’ Grace demands.
‘You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name.’ Sherlock presses his shoe to the cabbie’s gunshot wound when he continues to refuse. ‘A name! Now! The name!’
‘Moriarty!’ The cabbie screams in pain.
Moriarty?
‘I’m fine,’ Grace nudges the paramedics hands away from poking and prodding. ‘Please stop touching me.’ She watches as Sherlock speaks to Lestrade in front of another ambulance, the orange blanket around him a striking contrast to his dark hair and clothes.
‘We have to make sure you’re not injur—’
‘I’m not injured!’
She feels overloaded, overwhelmed in this moment. Her senses clashing with each other in an all-out war. The flashing lights were too much, the different conversations were too much. Grace wants to run away and hide and never come back. The whole ordeal so confusing.
She was doing fine. She was doing so much better until very recently. What has gone wrong? That’s the scary thing about depression. It creeps up on you so quickly, so unnoticeable, and then you can’t see yourself anymore. It’s no wonder Sherlock couldn’t deduce her; she doesn’t even know who she is at this very moment. She doesn’t think she’s known for a while if she’s being honest.
I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Just breathe. What can I see? What can I feel?
Grace’s eyes were trained on her hands, fingers picking at fingers in attempts to ignore all the heightened senses. A soft warmth falls over her coat-covered shoulders, looking up to find Sherlock has draped his ‘shock’ blanket over her.
‘For the shock.’
‘I’m not in shock.’
Sherlock grins, ‘I know.’
‘Thanks.’ Grace tries to smile at him, but her attempt falls short.
‘It’s very busy here. A lot happening…’
‘Yes, well, we did just catch a serial killer… sort of.’
‘There’s a good Chinese, Baker Street. Open till two. Should we see if John wants dinner? He’s a growing boy.’ He pokes fun at the doctor’s height.
Grace chuckles and looks up, directly into Sherlock’s icy irises. They were so cold but so warm, so inviting, yet so standoffish. She was stupid to think he wouldn’t realise, especially after the words of the thankfully now dead cab driver. This was Sherlock’s way of trying to help, to get her out of this situation that had made her fight or flight go off the rails. This was him… trying. ‘Chinese sounds good right now, I won’t lie.’ She stands, blanket falling off her shoulders and back into the ambulance.
Sherlock looks down at her shorter form with a soft expression. There was something about her head only reaching his chin that he found… endearing? And by Gods did he despise it. Who does she think she is to waltz into his life only a day ago and inspire such thoughts.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t read her earlier, he had discovered. It was that he had stopped himself from doing so subconsciously, as she reminded him of himself. And even he wasn’t immune to the fear of looking so deeply into oneself. Even he wasn’t immune to insecurity. She was as broken as he. She has learnt to put on a mask just like him. She was lonely, in a constant battle with herself. Grace was smart, and she was misunderstood. Sherlock knew the feeling better than anyone.
‘Come on.’ Sherlock and Grace walk over to John who stands behind some police tape. ‘Good shot.’
‘Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.’
‘Well, you would know,’ Grace smirks.
‘Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course I’m all right.’
‘Well, you have just killed a man.’
‘Yes, I… that’s true, innit?’ John looks up at Sherlock. ‘But he wasn’t a very nice man.’
‘No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?’
‘And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.’
‘That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here.’ The trio start walking away from the scene, giggling.
‘Stop it! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Stop it.’
‘Well, you’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame us.’
‘Keep your voice down! Sorry, it’s just nerves, I think.’ John apologises to the passing Sally Donovan. ‘You were going to take that bloody pill, weren’t you?’
‘Course I wasn’t. Biding our time. Knew you’d turn up.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Grace rolls her eyes. ‘You were going to take the pill.’
‘It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re an idiot.’
Sherlock smiles, ‘dinner?’
‘Starving.’
‘End of Baker Street, I was telling Grace, there's a good Chinese stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.’
‘Sherlock, that’s him, that’s the man I was telling you about.’ John gestures towards a car. A tall, posh looking man in a suit climbs out.
‘I know exactly who that is.’
Grace watches onwards, completely confused. ‘I think I missed a chapter.’
‘So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?’
Ah, sounds posh too. Must be the “archenemy” from earlier.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘As ever, I’m concerned about you.’
‘Yes, I’ve been hearing about your “concern.”’
‘Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?’
‘Oddly enough… no!’
‘We have move in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer… and you know how it always upset Mummy.’
‘I upset her? Me?’ Sherlock exclaims. ‘It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.’
‘No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?’ John asks.
‘Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?’
‘Losing it, in fact.’
‘He’s your brother?!’
‘Of course he’s my brother.’
‘So, he’s not… some criminal mastermind?’
‘Close enough.’
‘For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British Government.’
‘He is the British Government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.’
‘Huh? I never heard of him,’ Grace mumbles.
‘What?’ Sherlock’s head snaps in her direction.
‘Nothing.’
‘Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home – you know what it does to the traffic.’ Sherlock storms off, Grace chuckles and follows him with John close behind.
‘So, it runs in the family then?’
‘What?’
Grace grabs the lapel of Sherlock’s coat playfully, pulling it to the side to expose his suit. ‘Weird names and an affinity for suits.’ She drops the coat back into place.
‘Shut up.’ He pretends to be annoyed but cannot help the smile that rises on his face.
‘So, dim sum?’ John brings up dinner.
‘I can always predict the fortune cookies.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘Almost can. You did get shot, though.’
‘Sorry?’
‘In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.’
‘Oh, yeah. Shoulder.’
‘Shoulder! I thought so.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Left one.’
‘Lucky guess.’
‘I never guess.’
Grace cuts in, ‘yeah, you do. Gonna tell us what you’re so happy about?’
‘Moriarty.’
‘What’s Moriarty?’ John questions.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’
‘I don’t think I want to know, to be honest.’
‘Come on, Grace. Not the least bit curious?’
‘I might be after getting some food in my stomach, but right now I’m hungry and tired,’ Grace groans. ‘By the way, I’m crashing on your couch.’
