John Watson's POV

It was in London at the airport where Arial began to claw her way into the heart of the cold Sherlock Holmes. She stood at the edge of the road, waiting with the rest of the people, but the look on her face was striking and regal. Her hair was dark, like Sherlock's own, but it had most definitely been died so.

Sherlock stepped out of the car, and I, of course, followed closely behind him. As we passed by her, a smile snuck onto her face. At the time, I didn't notice, but she crept along behind us, following us wherever we went in the airport.

It was right after Moriarty came back. Sherlock had just killed a man to save my lying wife, Mary (although that's not her real name, which I don't know myself). Sherlock would have been banished (for I cannot think of a better word at the moment) from London for six months if not for Moriarty's return. Sherlock was unlikely to win, seeing as Moriarty had two extra years to plan his attack.

Maybe Sherlock also spent these two years preparing, Maybe he knew the whole time. You never really know with Sherlock. Of course, he thinks I'm the weird one. I'd like to think that there is some human being behind the hard shell he hides in. If there isn't, than what is the purpose of me telling you this story? The intent of this story is to convince you all of his humanity. I'd like you all to know that he is not a sociopath. Not even a high-functioning one, as he likes to call himself. No, Sherlock is much more than that. He was hurt when he was younger, that's all.

Anyway, Arial began to follow us, and she was very good at it. She stood out, but in the right kind of way. She didn't look at all shady of unapproachable. Not at all like the type of person to be following someone. When we got to the crime scene, Sherlock turned towards the airport chair she was comfortably perched on, and spoke, "Was there something you wanted?"

"Yes, I would like very much to speak with you alone." She spoke with grace, and the presence of her voice echoed and filled the room, making it seem full. Sherlock held out his hand to escort her towards a far, empty corner, and I proceeded to follow, but Sherlock made it very clear that I was unwanted, "No, John. I need to speak with her alone," he said, as if speaking to a child.

Sherlock's POV

John insists on writing his silly blog. I don't see any point to it. It's just a waste of time. Oh well. I'll play along.

When John and I got out of the cab, I noticed at once that something was out of place. Or rather, someone. While the other people only glanced at each taxi, she watched each one closely until John and my arrival. Obviously waiting for us. But why?

A quick look tells me that her hair was died. It was originally… blond? Brown? Black? No red. She is obviously hiding some freckles beneath a layer of makeup (which is too dark for her pale skin). Her eyes are green? Blue? Grey? No, a mix of some sort. Not important. Lipstick. Yes, now we're getting somewhere. Red, but not overwhelmingly so. She's wearing it to impress someone because it matches her hair bow. Playful, but still smart. Her clothes are that of a business women's, but… no. They are brand new. Still stiff, unwashed. She bought them today. She could have forgotten to pack them, but then why would she be at an airport. You can't buy clothes like that at an airport. Obviously a disguise. So why? Oh she's good, very good. She's thought of everything. Given me enough to know she's watching, but not enough to know who she is. Yet.

When John and I finally arrived where we were headed and I finally had the chance to 'notice' her, she asked if she could talk to me alone. She had a distinct accent, but she was trying to sound like she was from Northern England. Scottish? No, not Irish or Welsh either. Ah. American. That's it. I led her over to a corner after telling John not to follow. That's where it got interesting.

The corner was isolated, and we were invisible to any unwanted listeners. I glanced over at John to make sure he hadn't followed us. He was checking the pulse of one of the men who the crime scene was centered around. Good. This girl's presence was sort of like The Woman's, but it was younger, more innocent. She looked to be in her twenties. She was very pretty, and even I can admit to that. Although, I'm not one to let sentiment or love rule me. I hold out my hand for her to shake, "Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes. But you already knew that. My question is, who are you? You aren't a business lady, no, the clothes are brand new. But you don't belong at this airport either. You were waiting for me. Why?"

"I need to ask you a favor. But first, I need to see if it's worth it to ask you." She answers sincerely, but gives away nothing. "My name is Ariel Erickson, and I am prepared to blow your mind." Yes, definitely American. She reaches into the pocket of a caramel colored trench coat and pulls out a cigarette. "Can I see your lighter?" She asks, the tone of her voice innocent but the intent of her words cruel and knowing. "Your breathing is that of a smoker. Oh but you're trying to quit aren't you. I'm so sorry." She put away the cigarette, holding it like a beginner.

"And you don't smoke. You wanted to see my reaction. You'd be better off with Opium." I said plainly.

"I didn't want to get you too worked up."

Molly's POV

Another body lay waiting for me at the morgue. Sherlock was standing next to it, but seemed uninterested. There was a distant look in his eyes, like when he was solving a case in his mind, but I don't think the case he was solving was the one that the body belonged to. Something happened at the airport, and I was determined to find out what it was. After doing the last few tests on the body and determining that the cause of death was in fact poison, I turned to Sherlock and frowned, "What's the matter? You're uninterested in this case, obviously, you would have solved it by now, so what happened at the airport?" the words started out like a question, but became more stern and accusing as I spoke.

"Very observant of you, Molly. I'm almost impressed." He looked uninterested, but his eyes sparkled with wonder. I wondered why.

"Thank you. Now what's wrong?" I smirked briefly than frowned.

"I can see you'll never leave me alone." It was rare that he just… gave in, but now he did it without second thought. "At the airport, there was a girl. She followed John and me on our way to look at the body that's in front of you. She was very… intriguing." He looked rather… baffled. "That's all I'll say on that matter, if that's okay with you. I must be off now." And with a swirl of his coat he was gone.

I'm not sure whether it was seconds or hours that I stood there, watching the door. I'd only ever seen him like this when he asked me to assist his suicide. It was strange.