The move to London was a ridiculous idea but it had to be done. Ever since that whole Moriarty mess with the Bank, the prison, and the Tower of London, security had been tightened considerably all over London. Background checks galore and limited access to security workers so that future persuasions were also less likely—the whole shebang. And everyone, at this point, had heard of that cocky Sherlock Holmes character. These weren't exactly ideal roadblocks for a cat burglar.

Clara consoled herself with two facts: 1) She was only here for a short time; there was no need to steal anything. 2) It was unlikely Sherlock Holmes would involve himself with anything as base as theft these days, even break-ins the police couldn't solve. Especially break-ins the police couldn't solve, quite possibly, since everyone knew he thought the police dunces. Oh and, taking that last one into consideration again, Clara added a third fact to her consolation list: 3) No, seriously, she wasn't going to steal anything while in London.

Also, she didn't really have any other options for the time being. She couldn't go back to India. Her public life there was fine but she'd burned too many bridges in the crime world. And now, it appeared she had done much the same in China which meant that she was really better off out of Asia entirely. Russia was her safety net; always had been, always would be — she couldn't live there full time or she'd be down an escape route. She could never go back to her real home, America, where she hadn't even been Clara James. And, finally, either South America or Africa was to be the end game. As lovely as it would have been to call it quits and pack up the nest egg already, that wasn't an option yet either; she wasn't yet safe and she hadn't collected the final pieces of her life… well, to be life.

And one of the most major metropolitan areas of the world was probably her best option at this point — hiding in plain site and all that. Plus, even though she was most definitely not going to steal anything… London had an abundance of things to look at stealing. It was a stupid reason, she knew; but nothing about her compulsions had ever really been logical. Yet another plus for throwing off Holmes but, potentially, a minus for attracting his attention.

What bothered her the most about the move, she supposed, was the potential loss of the public life she'd built for herself. She hadn't known if she'd be able to make real legal difference on the behalf of women as a detective. That certainly hadn't been why she'd chosen the profession. No, of course, she'd become a detective to aid in her growing burglary skillset. But then she'd started taking other cases… acid-throwing, rape, shame-killings. It had been healing for her to add justice to the plot of those horrible stories.

Well, now she had to go back to Western society. She could help female victims anywhere in the world, in theory. But she'd gotten the job in London by pulling strings; they hadn't advertised for the position. As such, she had a feeling that to prove her worth she'd likely end up working whatever cases she was assigned, like she was new blood or something. New blood, the term made her grimace; she'd been the best at her job for close to ten years now. As the coveted American detective on her old police forces, she'd developed a pattern of getting the cases she wanted.

She had literally left Beijing just a day earlier and her new life here was already squared away. Now she was on her way to her first day of work. She did not know if she would have to look out for Holmes today or not but, until she did meet him, she'd have to spend each morning preparing with the utmost care. And after she met him? Well, hopefully, she wouldn't even be a passing blip on the radar.

The New Scotland Yard building made her nervous even as she approached it. She rolled her eyes, it was one of those great glass boxy numbers designed by a terribly uncreative architect. Clara didn't like glass buildings. She considered herself an entirely self-contained person. The only people who knew who she really was were in America and, considering they hadn't known for sure that she was even alive in over a decade, they didn't know who she was anymore either. Being in a glass building made her feel exposed.

She knew Holmes, if she were to meet him, would exacerbate the feeling tenfold which was why she had prepared. The secret, she hoped beyond hope, was to expose just enough of the truth. Anything she didn't want exposed she needed to make boring. She'd read John Watson's blog thoroughly enough to glean that Holmes was ruled by intrigue. The thought made her roll her eyes again: And people called theft a base desire? Please, anyone was a sucker for a good mystery.

"Hello, my name is Clara James," she said approaching an information desk with two security workers in the lobby, "Could you direct me to Inspector Greg Lestrade's office? I've just accepted a position in his department."

She signed in, using the same signature she had practiced over and over again when assuming the identity of Clara James. Poor real Clara James, she would think on occasion; the girl had really been studying to become a detective and everything.

And elevator ride and a brisk walk later, Clara was knocking on Lestrade's office door.

"Come in!"

Clara opened the door. "Inspector Lestrade?" she walked over to his desk, hand outstretched, which he took with a smile.

"Inspector James, I presume? Please take a seat!"

"Thank you sir, please let me just first say that how grateful I am that you were so quickly able to find me a position! I'm very excited to be part of the team."

"Your colleague in Beijing, Detective Liao, we studied Criminal Justice together. He insisted, I mean quite vehemently, that we make room for you here at the Metropolitan Police Service. Said that you'd be an unimaginable asset!"

"That's very lofty praise and I appreciate his kind words. I do hope to live up to the expectations," she said pragmatically.

Lestrade was about to make some response when his office door abruptly swung open, hitting the inside wall with a dramatic thud. An extremely tall man slid into the room comically and Clara was instantly reminded of an American show she hadn't seen since she left the states — Kramer, from Seinfeld. Behind the lean, wired man was a much more composed fellow with grey hair. Clara recognized them immediately: Holmes and Watson.

"Lestrade! He was bludgeoned with a tripod! It's the only thing that can explain the bruising points in the shape of an equilateral triangle-" Sherlock began.

"Well I'm sure it's not the only thing," Watson interrupted.

"Given the victim's cinematic dabblings, I don't think so," Holmes finished.

Lestrade sighed and looked at Clara apologetically. He opened his mouth to make introductions but Sherlock had already started in on her.

He looked Clara over with a sharp, critical, unwavering gaze. "Who's this?" he asked Lestrade, as if she wasn't even there.

"Ah, this is Clara! She's just moved to London and we've brought her on as a new inspector she's just come from Beijing-"

"-And before that, India? New Delhi, I'd assume, since she's just moved from one big capital to another," he finished, referring to London. He was still taking her in. Clara's mouth was parted slightly in a mix of genuine surprise and a bit of pre-planned acting. She hadn't expected to meet him this soon.

"Please Sherlock, we've just hired her. She's got a very impressive reputation and we don't need you scaring her off!"

"The prayer beads?" Clara asked, stepping in and holding up her wrist, fingering the beads lightly.

"Could have just been a souvenir but they're well worn," he said, "You've actually used them which suggests you must have been in the country for some time in order to glean the religion."

"That was easy. What else?"

"You're hair is in a bun, you want to appear professional on your first day of work. But it's a… different sort of bun-"

"A sushi bun!" she piped up cheerily.

"So you also want to express that you're a young, creative, professional," he said. "You're also dressed modestly. Shirt completely buttoned to the neckline, suit jacket that overwhelms your frame so men can't make out your body, high-waisted pants, old clothing as old as the 1980s. Probably picked up from a thrift store because you're not trying to impress anyone, in fact the opposite…"

"I'm sorry about all of this… you did ask him," his friend John said, stepping in.

"No, no! He's completely correct. That is exactly what I was going for when I dressed this morning. It's good to be validated in my decisions."

Sherlock ignored them both and kept going. "They still can, you know," he said.

"Pardon?" she asked.

"Men, they can still see that you have a nice body."

John and Lestrade both raised their eyebrows curiously but Clara stepped in on Sherlock's behalf. "Don't worry boys, I know he's not interested in me. Saying I have a nice body is not a judgement or compliment. It is just a fact."

"No shortage of confidence," Sherlock said, "But you frowned unconsciously when you said it. So the confidence is a front. And you have an American accent. An American moving from India to China to here… Well I'm still not sure I've figured out your most recent move, yet, but — given the modest clothing and the fake confidence — it appears you have an innate distrust of men. Your body posture was closed off before we arrived, judging by how both your arms and legs were crossed when we entered, and you clenched further inward upon the appearance of two more men."

Lestrade and Sherlock both looked at her for confirmation on this one but she simply cocked her head, arms and legs still crossed, and waited patiently.

"You moved to those countries to help women," Sherlock concluded, "Acid attacks, shame killings… Now you've gone quiet. Your eyes just briefly unfocused. You've been sexually assaulted too. I'm thinking, perhaps, in China which is why you've moved back to a Western culture."

"Sherlock!" John scolded but she put up a hand quietly.

"You said it before, John, I asked him to. Besides, I don't attempt to make a secret of my past," she said.

"The only component I'm still not sure I can figure, is why you came to London instead of returning to America," Sherlock said.

"Don't bother," she said, "It's quite mundane. I don't get along with my family."

"That would have been my first hypothesis, given that India is a long way to travel just to become a detective. Add that to the fact that you gained some spirituality while there," he said, gesturing to the beads on her wrist again, "Seems like you were running from some trauma. Maybe the sexual assault didn't occur in China after all. Am I right?"

"Oh you're in the general neighborhood," she replied.

Instantaneously he frowned. "What did I get wrong?"

She let out a bark of a laugh. "We are talking about my personal life here. You'd expect me to tell you?"

"You asked me to analyze you. I'm not a parlour trick," he hissed.

"No, I egged you on after you noted my prayer beads," she said, "You started it. But don't worry, no need to agonize. You weren't wrong in the technical sense, not about anything. The very general outline just gives a different impression than the real story."

"Oh?" he asked.

"Not in an interesting way," she said, and stood from her chair, "Your outline just makes me sound like more of a helpless victim than what I really am."

"And what is that?"

"A survivor," Clara said with a smile. She held out her hand and he shook it before she released her grip to shake John's. "It was a pleasure meeting both of you."

"And you," John said looking mildly impressed at how unphased she was. She walked past them to go settle in at her new desk. Clearly her new boss was going to need some time with the new men before they could continue. She needed to check in with Human Resources for a benefits orientation anyway. As she opened the door to Lestrade's office behind them, Sherlock spoke up a final time.

"One thing to keep in mind, Detective James," he said, looking back at her, "You're no safer from dangerous men in a western society."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, "You may be able to tell plenty about an individual, Sherlock… but don't pretend you understand women."

"I don't," he replied, curtly, "Romance is a waste of time."

"That's not what I meant. Allow me to rephrase. Don'tpretend you understand what it's like to be a woman."

With that she promptly shut Lestrade's door right in his face.

Later that evening, Watson sat in the armchair of his old living room kneading a portion of his forehead with his fingers. Sherlock was playing Debussy's Syrinx, a piece originally intended for the flute, on his violin. The transition was a jarring one and Sherlock was playing the screeching piece over and over and over. Mary was in the kitchen making soup for Mrs. Hudson who was sick. At least, that was their excuse. Ever since Moriarty had purportedly returned from the dead, they'd all been making an unconscious effort to stick together.

"I don't know what you're on about this time," he finally shouted, throwing his section of the news the the floor in an unceremonious heap, "But can you please switch tunes while you're in this frustrated huff?"

Sherlock pulled the instrument away from his chin abruptly, an errant finger plucking one of the strings loudly in the same motion. "John! It's Debussy!"

"Or a basket of cats dying," he mumbled and walked into the kitchen to rustle through the cabinets for some crackers.

"It's an interesting piece," Sherlock said, flopping onto the sofa and holding the violin sideways like a guitar as he plucked a minor scale, "Debussy went to the World's Fair in 1889. While he was there, he heard Javanese gamelan music. It was some of the first Eastern music the Western world had ever been exposed to."

Watson came back with a few crackers in hand. He waited for Sherlock to explain himself.

"That new detective. Clara James. She should know all about that," he finished.

There it was. Sherlock didn't like something about Lestrade's newest hire. John played along. "Why do you say that? She lived in India and then China, Java is in Indonesia."

"Gamelan ensembles aren't limited to one country," Sherlock said, "Besides, I've looked into her work history. She helped to recover a missing singer from one of Beijing's most revered gamelan ensembles. Turned out the woman had shady beginnings in recruiting young, unsuspecting women for sex slavery."

"My God," John said, choking on one of his crackers. "How terrible!"

"I said she helped to recover the woman. She also helped to put her in jail, after they shut down the trafficking. There? Do you have your happy ending now?"

"You were spot on with her!"

"Oh, I'm spot on with everyone!" Sherlock said dismissively. "But there was one thing I got wrong…"

"What's that?"

"Anyone looking through her work history and accolades can see she's a woman passionate about her cause," he said, standing to place his violin back in it's case, "It doesn't seem likely that she would have left the countries where women need her most for some place like London. In comparison, we seem positively matriarchal."

"But you pointed out… sexual assault. And she practically confirmed it," John argued.

"But she didn't actually confirm it, outright. There's no record of sexual assault anywhere in her history," Sherlock negated, "Now either she didn't report it, which seems highly unlikely given her profession, or it didn't happen. One thing is certain, Clara James is not a woman who is too afraid of men to maintain a cause she's passionate about."

John sighed. Sherlock had a point but he was afraid it wasn't as conclusive as his friend was making it out to be. "Perhaps," he conceded, "Or perhaps it's like she said…"

"She said many things, John, to which are you referring?" he asked, clearly annoyed to be debated.

"Well, don't assume you know what it's like to be a woman, much less a woman that's been assaulted."

On this note, Mary walked out of the kitchen with a tray of soup in hand. "Well, while that's sound advice, you've missed something yourself, John," she said, "A little mystery about Sherlock."

"Oh?" he asked his wife.

"Why is he so interested in this new detective?" she asked.

"He's not interested in her, she's not The Woman!" John said, putting air quotes around "the woman." Both Mary and Sherlock frowned at John's hasty assumption.

"She knows better than that, John. Go ahead, tell him," Sherlock said.

"A new detective hastily hired in one day?" she asked, "What if she's working for Moriarty? What if Lestrade has been compromised?"

Clara had come to London as prepared as she could for Sherlock Holmes but, given exactly the alarming rate at which he unpuzzled things, she began to worry she hadn't prepared well enough. She'd maintained her double life in several countries with ease now—an astonishing feat, she would tell herself mentally, given that her two professions were at odds with one another—but both working with Sherlock while simultaneously working against him seemed likely to prove her downfall if she wasn't continuously careful.

She could not slip. Not once. Not for less than a second.

This was going to be exhausting.

Her whole day had been spent getting ID cards, being issued weapons, touring the building, meeting co-workers, etc. She wasn't sure when she'd be put on her first case. Hopefully her first week or so would be going over paperwork to learn the particulars of the London police system, which would decrease her chances of bumping into Holmes. But avoidance wouldn't work long term. Even if she had managed to keep his interest in her down after that first meeting, she'd still have to interact with him on cases. She'd have to stay boring at all times.

The key, she decided, would be to keep him interested in their cases together. She'd do her best to keep her crimes mundane, completely ordinary. Granted, she wasn't sure how to accomplish that as, mundane criminal work made her twice as likely to get caught. When something was unsolvable, it no longer counted as "ordinary."

So what was her alternative? To only steal items on unimpressive value?

Well, that obviously wasn't why she'd become a cat burglar.

Clara smacked her hand to her forehead as she walked into her new flat. No, no, no! She wasn't going to steal anything while she was in London. It wouldn't be an issue. Period.

She doubted that Holmes would be spying on her currently as he certainly had no reason to do so at the moment. Either way she was cautious as she entered the flat. She turned on the lights and went about the business a normal person would go about after work — showering, changing, cooking, eating, and then unpacking some things from the move.

But it was all a front. This wasn't even her real place. Still, Clara laid down in her fake flat's bed in the dark for about an hour staring at the ceiling — asleep to any prying eyes from outside. To keep herself awake, she debated her day job against her passion.

Clara cared a great deal more for helping women than material objects, of course. But a compulsion was a compulsion, and she'd been a kleptomaniac since she was four years old. She still remembered her first time: The only kid at an adult dinner party, the adults tipsy on white whine, the air fragrant with baked eggplant and vinaigrettes and all sorts of other things she didn't eat at that age.

She had been waiting for her parents for hours, while they all argued about Bush losing the presidential election for a second term. Her parents' friends were rich, at least, which meant they had some very fascinating things to look at. On the desk in a study was an enormous elephant tusk, among other wonders. But what she'd ultimately spied was much more innocuous.

On a table in the main hall, where all the adults had dropped their car keys, was a small blown-glass paperweight. It was in the shape of a star, but with round edges, and it was a swirl of purple and blue. Clara didn't know why, but the object had called to her. I'm yours, it had said. And when her small fist had wrapped around it—just to look—it did indeed feel like hers, as if it had always been hers and she'd just misplaced it this whole time.

At first, she'd put it back on the table. But the moment the smooth glass left her hands, her stomach knotted tightly. It felt wrong to leave it behind. She would think of nothing else if she left it, she was sure.

That first time, she was caught. Her mother had later found it in her pocket. She'd driven Clara back to the house, made her march right up to the door and give it back and apologize. Oddly enough, that part wasn't so bad. After she'd taken it home she did not want it so badly anymore. It was why she'd completely forgotten it and left it in her pocket in the first place. So, there were no tears shed over returning the paperweight. No, the whole experience had simply been… the taking.

The hour was up. Clara got out of bed and got changed into an oversized grey jumper and sweatpants. She tucked her hair up underneath a floppy cap and left the apartment.

It was difficult not to keep looking around herself as she traversed the city at this late hour. But continuous glancing would have made her look suspicious. Almost twenty blocks later, she turned into a narrow alley between two row homes. At the side of one, concrete stairs led downwards into a basement. There were no windows and the door didn't even have a handle; you had to pull it open with your keys once you'd inserted them into the lock.

Once inside, the door locked behind her automatically, but she sealed shut the deadbolt just in case. She couldn't stay too long; she'd need to wake up in the faux-flat to walk to work in case anyone tracked her movements the next morning. It was dark in the basement. She flipped the light switch and the room brightened.

Clara let out a relaxed sigh. It was more like a storage unit than a home. Things upon things upon things… all the things she'd ever stolen. As she'd grown older, she had eventually developed taste. On the far wall was her Leger, a painting nearly six feet tall; boy had that been a tough theft… cumbersome objects were not preferable, but that heart wanted what it wanted.

There were plenty of miscellaneous objects too — things she'd taken from peoples houses and the like. Plus, real personal items from her past in America. Most of those she kept safely tucked away. Some things she even needed to hide from herself.

Clara didn't keep everything she stole. Most things were returned to their owners before they even knew they were gone. Unfortunately, for the big thefts that wasn't an option. A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime…. pssssh! Only if they were idiots. And then, of course, there were the objects that she legitimately didn't want to return.

She flopped down on a leather sofa in the center of the basement. That was stolen too. She'd taken that straight out of a neighbor's apartment in Beijing before she left. She'd needed help getting it into her "getaway" moving van and she sighed at the thought. Not all of the loose ends from China were tied up quite yet. There were always accomplices to think about.

She'd met plenty of men—always men—who thought her cat burglaring a base form of crime. But such was typical of mere compulsions, though she frequently tried to dress up her reasoning for taking the second "job." Really though, even if it was a compulsion problem, Clara had always found the term quite elegant. Cats were quite elegant. Burglary was an elegant term; it had a wonderful ring to it. And, best of all, she had to perform a surprising amount more Mission-Impossible / Bondeqsue-type moves for the jobs than even she would have ever expected. And Clara had a bad habit of idealizing almost everything when she was a child.

She'd fallen asleep in her basement. Crap, she'd already ruined everything. Clara shot up from the leather couch, checking the time as she did so. It was already 8 am, she'd be late for work if she even attempted to go back to her apartment. And she really wasn't certain where anything was in London yet so she didn't know if she'd be able to stop somewhere to buy clothes on her way to work.

Crap, she thought again, fussing around the few pieces of furniture in the basement that had drawers. Really she knew it was useless; all that was down here was a complete mess of miscellany. Her cell rang, startling her from her thoughts.

"Hello?" she asked, not recognizing the number.

"Clara it's Sally, from work," came the voice at the other end.

"Oh, hello, what's up? I'm just… o-on my way in," she lied.

"Stay where you are, we have to go somewhere for Greg."

"I've um, actually just returned from my morning run," she said looking down at her grey sweat clothes, "Do I have time to finish running back to my place for a quick change?"

"Not right now but it doesn't matter, you can change after we've finished. We just need to go to Holmes house," she said.

Clara raised her eyebrows in alarm. "Really? Why?"

"He's stolen something from evidence," she said, "We need to get it back. I'll meet you outside his place in 15 minutes, 221B Baker Street. Can you manage?"

"Sure, I'll see you soon," Clara said and hung up, letting out an enormous breath of relief.

She snuck out to the street as inconspicuously as possible. While Clara had never had contact with Moriarty herself, per se, she'd known criminals he'd helped in the past. One of his patented tips to keep in mind when dealing with Sherlock Holmes was not to underestimate his London "homeless network."

Luckily, the area she was in was virtually abandoned at any point during the day. It was one of the reasons she'd chosen it. Another old-school Moriarty tip for scamming the city of London that had been passed on from wrongdoer to wrongdoer.

This did not, however, change the fact that she was completely unprepared to meet Mr. Holmes a second time. Anxiety knotted in her stomach, and she was certain it showed.

Thanks for reading everyone, I'd love to hear your thoughts! I feel like this is a difficult fandom to write for as there are so many details to keep in mind. It's also my first mystery, written from a criminal perspective no less, so I'm definitely curious to see if I can keep everyone guessing.