"Hydrogen in our veins, it cannot hold itself. Our blood is boiling."

-'Strangeness and Charm' by Florence +The Machine

The streets of London were always busy, no matter the time of day. So, to anyone who knew not their destination, navigating them alone was almost fruitless. Imogen, however, had been to London countless times and had memorized the majority of the roads and alleys. She would tell you it was because of her thirst for knowledge and brilliance that she could remember their every turn effortlessly, but that would be a lie. Between her photographic memory and her knack for being late to practices, she simply knew the fastest, most efficient ways to her destinations.

No, she wasn't late to theater again or off to afternoon tea with her small circle of friends, Imogen was on a mission. Tucked under her left arm was a gift. A late birthday gift she was delivering for a family friend. It was two feet long and a hand-span wide. She didn't know the contents, but didn't ask Violet about them either. All she had to do was deliver it, then she could head home. Imogen wasn't sure how she was persuaded to do this for Violet in the first place. No, that is a lie too. Imogen has always had a soft spot for Violet, or rather anyone in the Holmes family.

9 Hours Prior

"No, father, I'm not staying!" Imogen laughed playfully at the large man who took up the doorway of her childhood home. His sandy blonde hair was tousled softy, and becoming slightly shaggy. It almost hid his wide green eyes. Almost. "I told you I would get on the playbill, and I was right, wasn't I?"

White teeth broke out against the sun-kissed skin of his face as he replied in his low timbre. "I suppose you are right." A stocky hand came up to scratch the stubble on his chin. "All you Quinn women are." He finished with a smirk.

Imogen only rolled her eyes with a giggle, and squeezed her way into the Irish styled cottage.

Gerard Quinn turned to face his only daughter's back after he closed the front door. He knew she would come to collect the rest of her stuff after he heard she found a nice loft in London. Imogen's hair was getting long, he noted. Her chestnut brown ringlets now fell well below her shoulder blades, and the sun had brought out those bright blonde highlights that mirrored his own. She swiveled to face him. Those familiar arctic blue eyes piercing his emerald gaze. Overcome with emotion, Gerard scooped his daughter up into his arms like she was only five, rather than twenty-five. Imogen squealed in delight, laughing softly.

"You look more like your mother every day." Gerard whispered, kissing her forehead and setting her down. "Florence would be so proud of you, you know that don't you, Imogen?" He questioned.

Imogen smiled sadly. "I know." She directed her gaze up and over her father's shoulder, where a large family portrait hung over a roaring fireplace. Imogen could have been Florence's twin. Same large, blue eyes. Same pointed nose. Same small, dark freckle under their left eye. They were identical, with the milky skin tone, the noble build, and the dark brown ringlets that framed an aristocratic face.

The picture was taken after Imogen aged 20, no longer in her awkward teens. If you'd seen her then, you would have thought her adopted. Imogen smiled at the thought. "I just wish mummy could see me perform."

"Oh, love. Your mother is always watching over you."

. . . . . .

"That's the last of it!" Imogen smiled, releasing her hair from the bun that managed it during her lifting. "Though, the mover left ahead of me. He's gonna beat me back to London." She turned back to her father with a shrug. "Oh, well. He'll just have to move all that stuff in by his lonesome."

Imogen grabbed and buttoned her forest green petticoat back up, before pulling on a slim pair of black gloves. "Alright, father!" She called over her shoulder, pulling the lapels closer to her neck. "I'll ring you later!"

Gerard met her at the door and hugged her tight before his eyes darted away, nervously. Imogen's narrowed at her father.

"What?" She drawled, raising a dark eyebrow.

"... Violet just ..." Gerard said with a small smile, gesturing to the phone. "She wants you to come by for tea quickly." He finished, folding his hands behind his back.

Imogen sighed. Her icy blues pinched shut in mild annoyance, before reopening calmly and leveling with her father's emerald gaze.

"Violet Holmes? Quick? Never." Imogen said, shaking her head and waving her hand dismissively. "Well, looks like I won't be going back to London today. She'll talk my ear off for a day and a half!" She finished, smiling now. Stepping to open the door, Imogen turned to Gerard again.

"I always knew old man Holmes had eyes like a hawk!"

"That seems to be the case, Imogen." Gerard said, smiling and pushing his daughter out the door. She stumbled slightly down the four stairs. "Say 'hi' to Sigur for me, won't you?" Imogen only waved a hand over her shoulder in departure before walking around her car, and down the path to the house she spent many of her younger days about.

When the brick house did come into view, Imogen couldn't remember why she was so hesitant to come back. She loved this place, and it was just as she remembered. Pulling open the gate, Imogen walked up to the front door, stopping briefly to admire the garden she, Florence, and Violet had dug around in, and knocked thrice. Before she could pull her fist away from the third knock, the door swung open, and she was pulled into the ample bosom of one Mrs. Violet Holmes.

"Oh, Imogen!" Violet gushed pulling back arms-length to take her in. "Aren't you a sight?! You have blossomed so!" Releasing one arm, but keeping the other in a vice, Violet led Imogen down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen where tea and biscuits were already waiting, muttering all the while something along the lines of: 'Leave it to Imogen Quinn to think she can sneak into Harlow and not visit me.'

"Tell me how you have been, Ivy!" Violet began once they were seated. Imogen smiled at the forgotten nickname. All the Holmes called her that. Well, almost all of them.

"I've been well." Imogen began, sipping the tea before her. Violet hadn't forgotten how she liked it, extra cream, no sugar. "I'm acting now, in the theater in London. Also singing at a member's only lounge." Violet seemed to eat it all up, stars almost visible in her eyes.

"Pretentious then?" Violet said, drinking in her own tea with that bright smile of hers. "I'm so proud of you!" She gushed reaching over to grasp Imogen's hand.

They continued to catch up for the better part of the hour. Imogen told Violet of the few plays she had already been in, about the two friends she had, and all about her new home in London. Violet, in turn, told Imogen about how life in quiet Harlow had been for her and Sigur without her kids running amuck. She told Imogen about Sherrinford's business taking off in Amsterdam, and how well Mycroft was doing in the British parliament. She lamented about her oldest's infrequent calls, but how she was happy none-the-less. Then she went on to talk about her youngest, Sherlock.

Imogen thought she was over him, but her resolve crumbled as soon as the name slipped from his mother's lips. Sherlock..

"He's a detective." Violet said. "Well, I think. Mycroft tells me he works with Scotland Yard often, solving murder cases and the like." Imogen's eyebrows tweaked up a bit. The sip of Earl Grey tea she was taking was almost spat out.

"So, he's in London too?" Imogen asked, curious. Nervous. "Him and Mycroft both?"

Violet smiled. "Yes, my dear. A wonder how you haven't run into Mycroft, let alone Sherlock." The older woman's smile turned dreamy. "They both still strut around like they own England." She said with a chuckle. "So, you could say nothing's changed in the last seven years with those two." When she finished, Violet's eyes lit up.

"Ah, yes!" The elderly woman got up from the table, and disappeared into the living room. Imogen heard her rustling around.

So, Imogen thought in her brief moment of peace, Sherlock's been in London all this time? I've been there for the last four years. How have I not seen him? How has he not ... found me? She drifted in her thoughts. Perhaps the secrets they had shared weren't important. Perhaps her friendship did not mean the same to him. Maybe, that day, in the woods- ?

Imogen's thoughts were cut short by a loud thump! that echoed from the living room.

"Are you alright in there?" The brunette called softly, leaning back in her seat to peer into the living space. There was a pause, before Imogen heard Violet click her tongue softly, before replying a soft 'yes'.

When she came back, she held a red package out to Imogen. It had a small black photo album on top. "The album is for you dear! The red box is a belated gift for Sherlock. Would you be a dear and give that to him when you return?"

Imogen swallowed thickly, standing up too. "Y-yeah," She stuttered, clearing her throat. Violet only smiled at her. Handing over the gifts, Violet walked Imogen to the door, hugging her as she departed. "This is his address," Violet said, slipping a small piece of paper into her free hand. "Send him our love!"

When the door closed behind Imogen, Violet sighed, turning around and smiling. She jumped a bit when she saw Sigur towering behind her. His tawny eyes holding Violet's blue-grey ones.

"Ivy still fancies our boy, does she not?" His brass voice breaking through the silence. Shifting so his arms were folded across his chest, Sigur Holmes leaned against the arch way leading into the living space.

Violet smiled at her husband. "Yes." She replied in kind. "After all these years, the mere mention of his name makes her blush like a school girl."

. . . . . .

And that's how I ended up here, with this red box tucked under my arm.

"Just past Speedy's Cafe." Imogen murmured out loud, reciting the directions in her pocket. "Just past, like, here?" She shifted the weight of the box in her arms. Imogen had left the album in her car which was in the car park adjacent to her building.

She peered into the open doorway, not seeing anyone. Imogen looked over her shoulder, and threw caution to the wind by stepping across the threshold. She glanced at the swung-open door briefly, confirming this was the right place.

221b

"Hello?" Imogen cleared her throat. "I'm uh, looking for Sherlock Holmes?" She called out timidly to the empty hallway, ducking around the railing. Sighing, Imogen backed up and whirled around. In doing so, she came face to face with a shorter, older woman.

"Ah, hello." Imogen began, politely. "I'm looking for Sherl-"

"Sherlock, yes!" She replied cheerily. "You have a case for him?" The woman asked, tilting her head ever so slightly.

Imogen looked confused. Did Violet call her? Glancing down at the red box, she drew her eyebrows together.

"I mean, yeah-"

"He's just upstairs, dear." She said, ushering Imogen up a step or two. "And he'll be so happy to see you."

"What are you talking about, Ms.?" Imogen cut in, thoroughly befuddled, pausing on her step.

"Hudson, dear." The older woman said, dismissively. "And Sherlock has been just itching for a case. I hope its a good one."

With that, Ms. Hudson disappeared into the doorway at the beginning of the stairs. Imogen let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and continued up the stairs.

. . . . . .

John Watson was currently spending his Wednesday evening leisurely. The morning news was splayed out by his hands as he read the tabloids. Nothing interesting at all. He sighed, folding up the paper and downing the rest of his tea. Sure, he was bored, but not to the extent Sherlock was. His flatmate was currently sulking in his room, doing god knows what. John rolled his eyes at the thought. The clearing of a throat brought him from his fog.

"Knock, knock." The soprano voice spoke. "I hope I'm not intruding. I was hoping to find Sherlock Holmes?"

John's head whipped around to survey the open door. Ms. Hudson must have left it open, again. What he saw was extraordinary blue eyes. John was positive he'd never seen a shade like hers. Chocolate brown curls fell about her shoulders with platinum blonde running through it. Small nose, full lips, and those large, blue eyes. Because of them, her body was the second thing he noticed. But when he did, he swallowed thickly. This girl wasn't wispy or slight. She was soft and curved like women should be. Tall, too. Taller than him, if only by a little

I've got a lovely one, John reminded himself. Claire.

Or was it Natalie. . .?

"No, yeah. Yeah." John started, stumbling to his feet. "You found him."

Her eyebrows raised, and a smirk broke across her face. "Oh, did I?" She quipped, pulling her black gloves off by the fingers and shoving them in the pocket of her coat. His eyes followed the movement as glossy, red nails were unveiled.

John only stared, before realizing his mistake. "No," He said, shaking his head and making his way to her. "No, but you're close. I'm his flatmate, John Watson." John finished, offering his hand.

"A pleasure." Her pallid hand looked small in his, to John's surprise. "I'm Imogen Quinn."

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Quinn." John said, releasing her hand and sweeping his arm out. "Please, come in."

Imogen paused. "Oh, no." She began. "I don't mean to intrude. I was just told to give this to Sherlock." She gestured to the package she had tucked under her arm.

"What is it?" John inquired, leading her in anyway with a light touch to her shoulder. She noticed, but complied, letting him pull her.

"Oh," Imogen breathed, sitting down on the couch and pulling the red box into her lap. "It's a belated gift for him."

John looked mildly shocked at this girl. "From you?" He was sure he's never seen her.

Imogen laughed. "No, not me." Sobering up, she finished. "I haven't seen Sherlock in, oh, ages."

"Seven years, four months, and nine days. I'm not sure you can measure an 'age' of time."

Imogen exhaled, closing her eyes. Nothing's changed. She smiled a wary one when she saw him. A plain white tee-shirt, light blue flannel pants, and a dark purple dressing gown, untied and fluttering around him.

"I believe it's an expression, Sherlock." John cut in for her.

"Irrelevant." Sherlock murmured, cutting in front of John and sitting on the news-covered coffee table, directly in front of Imogen. Their knees brushing. "Why are you here?"

Imogen inhaled sharply. He was different, and yet, still the same. Still eccentric, beautiful Sherlock. Those blue-greys' looking over her, asking her another question. "What do you want?" His detached tone was something she was used to. Unfazed, Imogen spoke up quickly.

"'Hi, Immy. How are you? What have you been up too?'" Imogen mocked Sherlock's voice poorly. "Oh, yeah. I'm alright. Doing what I do best. Uhm, surviving. Thanks for asking, Sherlock." She responded to herself with a crooked smile.

Sherlock propped his elbows on his knees so his 'prayer hands' could rest under his nose comfortably, narrowing his eyes at the girl. Why was she here? Did something happen? Oh-

"Everything alright in Harlow?"

Imogen rolled her eyes, smirking. "Yes, yes. Everything is fine."

John was perplexed, to say the least. Imogen didn't seem to mind Sherlock's bluntness or his lack of personal space. She was completely comfortable in his presence. That was something he never thought he would see, honestly.

Sherlock leaned into Imogen's circle. "And now we're back to my first question."

Imogen's face broke into a flawless smile. Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction, and John didn't miss that.

"I act as a personal parcel delivery woman, as it is." Imogen said, holding the red box in her hands. "Happy belated birthday. Love, Violet and Sigur Holmes." She spoke offering the gift to the detective.

Sherlock leaned back, accepting the gift. "Oh, yes." He paused, looking at her hands that almost brushed his. "Thank you, Im." He replied, weighing the package in his palms for a moment before depositing it on the coffee table beside him, uninterested in it, and laced his long fingers together. Imogen cocked her head to the side.

"You're not going to open it?" She questioned. Sherlock's eyes came back up to hers. "Why would I?" He began, leaning back and resting his folded hands in his lap. "I already know what it is. It's weight gave it away."

Imogen pursed her lips, looking to John. "This is why I've never gotten Sherlock a gift." She chuckled. John smiled.

"That's not true, Immy." Sherlock said, using his nickname for her. "You've given me three gifts in total." The tall brunette was frozen at the name, before that dizzying smile came back across her features.

Imogen got up, shaking her head. "Did I?" She said, walking to the door. "Must have slipped my mind." The laughter still in her voice. John watched the exchange, perplexed.

"Ah, well. I best be off." Imogen said, turning her body back towards the residents of 221B. "It was nice seeing you, Sherlock. And you, John. Nice to meet you."

"Back to Harlow?" Sherlock asked, shifting his body to face her. Imogen rolled her eyes, pulling her gloves back on. "Sherlock, I haven't been living in Harlow for years." Sherlock's gazed hardened almost, questions in his eyes. Imogen would have none of it. So, she turned to leave.

"Good evening."

And came face to face with Mycroft Holmes.

Keeping her head down, she mumbled a, "Afternoon." and tried to side-step the man, hoping he did not recognize her, but it was not so.

"Do my eyes deceive me? Are you not little Ivy Quinn?"

Imogen raised her gaze to Mycroft, her acting background coming out strong. She widened her eyes in mock surprise, one hand coming up to her mouth.

"Bless me, Mycroft Holmes." Her fake smile never faltering. "In the flesh, it would seem."

Mycroft hadn't changed that much. Still carrying the extra weight he did when they were younger. Just as stiff and well groomed as per usual. What were the odds of seeing both of them today? Now, just need ole Sherrinford here. Then it will be a party! She thought, sarcastically.

"I must say Ivy," Mycroft began. "You have most definitely changed, for the better." Imogen knew he didn't mean any disrespect, but her jaw clenched anyways. "The braces are gone, and you no longer look like a malnourished foal. And, ah," Mycroft used his pointer finger to lift her chin up higher for a better look. "You've finally grew into those large eyes of yours."

It wasn't a secret, Mycroft Holmes was a perfectionist and pointing out the flaws in others is what he liked to do. But in this moment, Sherlock seemed like the saintly Holmes in the room to John, and that was a feat in itself. John watched as Imogen took the verbal beating with a smile and remained unaffected.

When John's eyes moved to Sherlock, he was taken back. Sherlock was standing now, his body angled towards Imogen's. His fists were clenched at his sides, and his blue-grey eyes were narrowed at Mycroft. All tell tale signs that he was not a happy detective in this moment.

"I had heard you were living in London, Ivy. How is it treating you, my dear?" Mycroft asked, switching to pleasant conversation and releasing her face. His eyes darted to Sherlock's, then back to Imogen's, smiling.

"I love it here." She swallowed, brushing her hair off one of her shoulders. "It's different from our country home, it's like a breath of fresh air." Imogen laughed glancing back to Sherlock briefly. "Hard to believe, though. I've been living here for over four years, and this is the first I've seen of you two."

"Ah," Mycroft began, stepping into 221B, letting Imogen leave. "But, I've seen you. Bella Tel Amore, Letters To A Soldier, and in a more classic rendition of Cinderella. You are lovely on stage."

"You're an actress?" John questioned. Imogen turned to him and smiled in kind.

"Yes. I've always like to play pretend." The smile on her face became something secretive. Imogen pressed the gloved fingers of her left hand into her lips, suppressing the smirk. She took a glance at Sherlock again to find him already looking her way. His gaze thoughtful as it raked over her.

"Well," Imogen said after a moments hesitation. "I'm off." She turned away from the residents of 221B and Mycroft. Throwing a hand over her shoulder in a backwards wave, she made her way down the stairs.

"Good evening, boys."

. . . . . .

After Imogen's departure, the Holmes had a stare down. At least, that's what it looked like when John turned back around.

"So," Mycroft began, sitting in Sherlock's armchair. "You're pretty quiet around Ivy, brother mine." He drawled, reclining. "She has grown into quite the young lady."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his previous comments.

"Can I not check up on a sibling from time to time?" Mycroft shot back, narrowing his eyes at his offending younger brother.

"I doubt you check in on Sherrinford as often as you do me."

John looked bemused for a minute. There are three of them? Oh, boy. Mycroft only shrugged his shoulders, disinterested.

"Sherrinford holds his own well enough." Mycroft spoke plainly. "Last I checked, he doesn't have a list of people that want him dead." The older Holmes finished with a smirk.

Sherlock shook his head, something else on his mind.

"Anyways," Mycroft began again, reclining and crossing his legs."I have a case for you two."

The younger Holmes glanced his way before huffing indignantly and flopping down on the couch, facing the wall. "What is it?" Sherlock mumbled.

John watched his flatmate sulk again, his thumb and forefingers massaging his temples.

"Oh, you'll love it." Mycroft smiled up at John.

"Well?" John prompted.

"Its the disappearance of three girls from Wyndham's Theater." Sherlock's eyes widened at the wall before rolled over and sat up, ridged.

"No.." Sherlock whispered. John, too, frowned. Looking from Sherlock to Mycroft hoping for the best. However, it was for not as Mycroft spoke.

"The very same theater Ivy Quinn lead's for."

Sherlock said nothing. His gaze only hardened as he stood and made his way to his room. A few minutes later he re-emerged, dressed. Tailored, black slacks and a silk, violet button-down with a suit jacket over it, unbuttoned. He reached the coat rack and threw on his long overcoat. "Come along, John." Sherlock said, turning to face the doctor.

"We have work to do."

John stood slack-jawed for a moment, before rushing out the door after his flatmate. This woman must be special for Sherlock to care about her well being so. Just who was this Imogen Quinn?

[break]

Mycroft remained in the now abandoned flat. He twirled his cane in his left hand, absentmindedly. The cane was stopped abruptly and he bounced it off the floor once, standing and making his way to the door.

"Dear brother mine," He smirked at the empty room. "What an interesting turn of events."

Revised 8/13/15

-Amelia