A/N: This is purely to stretch out of my comfort zone and try my hand at something new. Locations are fictional. Liberties taken with canon timeline. May or may not continue.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

INTRO

"Sherlock. You're going to want to see this."

"Not now," was the answering growl. "Erythrocytes are fragile, and I've only got moments to—"

"Sherlock, it's Helen. On the tube." We haven't seen her for two months, and suddenly, there she was and I thought you'd like to know. She's looking like she's going to be alright, all things considering…

The other raised his dark-haired head, one eyebrow lifted. It was all he needed to show his surprise. "What's she done now?"

John's smile was bemused and almost out-of-place happy, considering what he was watching. "She's saved several hundred lives, again." Lifting the remote, he raised the program's volume and the voice he was listening to filled the room. It belonged to a reporter in a tight dove-gray pencil skirt and cream chiffon shirt beneath a bright red jacket, her short dark hair clipped back from her face, and her gloved hands held tightly to a microphone as pandemonium reigned behind her. The multi-colored flashing signals of squad cars, ambulances, and fire responders danced across her body.

"…Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to breaking news at the Brockridge Royal Theatre on this, the opening night of Ed Cuttington's long anticipated fall premier, Green As Day. I'm Judy Sorting from Channel Six and we have just been told that a man whose name has not been released yet has just been arrested on first-degree charges…"

The screen was monopolized by the sight of a young man with a shaved head dragging his feet, with hands cuffed behind him, flanked by two uniformed law men.

"…for constructing and then preparing to set off a timed bomb. That bomb was meticulously crafted into the very palace prop that acts as the main backdrop throughout the play. We are not clear on any possible motives of this very disturbed backstage crewmember at the moment, but standing with me here…"

The screen panned from Judy's overly-bright smile to a slender figure standing next to her, with hands shoved into the front pockets of her plum colored pea coat, and John leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Sher—"

Movement at his elbow. "I'm watching."

As the lens focused on the woman, she stopped biting her bottom lip and raised her head. Dark blonde curls slipped over her left shoulder and soft brown eyes—tense around the edges as they turned from the scene of evacuees emerging from the theatre doorways—rested on Judy.

"…is Helen Hudson, well known for her detective work alongside Detective Investigator Greg Lestrade before her leave of absence from the position a couple months due ago to unfortunate circumstances. Evening, Helen."

The woman gave a nearly inaudible sigh, her voice laced with weariness like one who did not want to be there but knew she had to be. "Hello again, Judy."

"Still doesn't like her, then?" John asked, nodding towards the reporter. He felt a pang of sympathy for Helen, hunched into her coat like she was afraid Judy was shedding a terminal illness through her words alone.

Sherlock's smirk and his eyes on the reporter were not kind.

"I've been informed," Judy said, "that it has been your work here tonight that has stopped the—as he's already being called—Green Bomber's work here. With about six hundred audience members in the Theatre house, I would say we owe you quite a thank you."

A tight smile was given. "Nothing like that, please. It was just…intuition."

"Intuition?" Judy gave a condescending nod and moved on. "What a performance, though. I'm sure no one here is likely to ever forget. The play was nearly halfway through when suddenly—poof!—on come the house lights and a swarm of bomb squad members are racing in from the wings. Lestrade had quite the fun keeping order through that megaphone of his, didn't he?"

Now Helen gave the condescending nod. "Fun."

"Is there anything you can tell us about how you unraveled what was going on tonight? I understand that you weren't here principally on the scent of any trail" —Helen winced and John muffled a series of chuckles into his jumper's collar; even Sherlock grinned— "but were actually invited to the showing by Mr. Cuttington himself?"

"A friend of mine," Helen responded dismissively. "And no, I'm afraid I can't tell the general public what exactly happened." Hidden inside her tone of voice was the subtext, Duh, you idiot. They wouldn't understand.

Judy pouted, her pale pink lower lip fanning out. "You certainly aren't new to this sort of thing, as we all know from your long history of deductive work. Everyone watching I'm certain is equally familiar with your unofficial work with the internet detective phenomenon, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

"Oh listen, we're famous," John said lightly.

"We're phenomenon, not famous."

John waved the comment away. "Same thing."

If Judy saw Helen's 'Oh here we go' expression, she ignored it stalwartly. And stupidly, in John's opinion, but then, he wasn't there at the site to give said opinion. "If you are unable to give details about tonight's events—"

"Not unable. Just don't want to."

Judy stammered for a moment, then rallied rather impressively. "—then perhaps we can spend a little more time getting to know you? Just until new details come in, you see. We weren't quite able to finish our last interview, after all."

Helen looked towards her feet, as if begging for the earth to split open and swallow her up while, miles away in his flat, John broke apart into guffaws that made his belly ache. The last interview had left Judy teary-eyed and cherry-red with anger while Helen answered a text from Sherlock—with the relief reserved only for those being freed from a death row sentence or something akin—and fled the area. It was the only time in her life that Helen had come running at Sherlock's request for help like, as she said in her words, "a damn dog on a leash".

"Good of you to come," Sherlock had told her. "Before the scent grows cold."

Which made John marvel now at how lucky Judy's stupidity made her in order for her to unknowingly jab a barb at Helen like she just had.

"As I've mentioned, it's quite apparent you haven't stepped away from the investigative life, though you've dropped your official title. What have you been filling your time with besides crime scenes?"

Helen took a moment to diffuse the glare she held before looking back up and said in a deadpan voice, "Lots of sodoku."

Judy's plastered smile wavered and John clutched at his midsection, positively howling now. Sherlock shushed him as Judy went on, with an edge to her falsely-sweet tone, "So you fancy yourself to be like Sherlock Holmes?"

Helen looked absolutely horrified at the idea. "No, no, no! What a depressing thought!"

As Sherlock grunted and John dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, completely out of breath now, Judy pressed on. "But you can certainly reason like him."

"I suppose so," Helen said, with complete lack of politeness.

Judy ignored that too. "Mind having a go?" She indicated herself.

"I can't promise much…" Helen heaved another sigh and began, in a languid rhythm, "But you changed your shoes sometime before this interview, mostly because you've been on your feet all day and those five-inches were killing you. I am the seventh person you've interviewed today, the five previous before me being cast members backstage. Of course, that was before the bomber incident, in which you were called quickly to the outside here and hastily reapplied a lipstick that didn't belong to you. You're upset that you're going to have to work late tonight"—Judy gawked in embarrassment—"because your boyfriend had something special planned. You took up residence in the states—southern California—for about six months. And you have a complete lack of sense for personal space."

Judy cleared her throat, stepping back. "H-how do you know all that?"

Helen gave a sympathetic glance before lifting a finger to point as she spoke. "Strap indentation on foot. Makeup powder on skirt. Darker lipstick stains on corners of mouth. Expensive earrings most likely from a boyfriend you've been committed to for a while and who's likely to propose soon, based on the ring markings on all of your fingers from habitual use except for the ring finger of your left hand. But that has a tan line, so this expectation of a serious engagement has been more recent than those six months stateside. Continuing with that, there are three different tan lines on your neck, which don't happen to someone in a tanning bed or on vacation, where they're bound to be more meticulous about those things. Californian accent to your vowels." She gave a slight grimace. "And cinnamon toothpaste."

John whistled, sitting back until he was slumped against his Union Jack pillow. "She's still got it."

"You say that as if you expected her to set it down somewhere for a while," Sherlock said in annoyance. "Like some… some birthday gift you're not fond of but you pull out occasionally just to keep it dusted off."

With his tongue running over his lips once, John paused for a moment before decided to ask anyway. "What are you on about?"

"Nothing."

Your mind…Barely used… John pinched his mouth together, recalling. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control…

"Sorry," John said shortly. "I didn't mean—" When Sherlock cut him off with a perfunctory wave of his hand, he returned his attention to the tube and listened.

"…many would like to know how you can be friends with someone who saw to it that your uncle was executed?" Judy tilted the microphone towards Helen's mouth, and John knew his friend well enough to see her desire to jam the instrument down the reporter's throat briefly reflected in her gaze before she blinked it away.

"It's because he got him executed, quite frankly," she said levelly. "It's how Sherlock and I met. Excuse me, I think that's Lestrade bellowing at me from the megaphone." She marched off camera without a backward glance.

"Atta girl," John whispered.

Sherlock merely sighed. "She forgot to tell the reporter that her diet of lemon tea and sauerkraut is only serving to make her more bloated on camera."

John frowned. "Lemon tea and sauerkraut?"

"Cinnamon toothpaste, John." As if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

So John replied, "Earth is third from the sun."

As Sherlock huffed in annoyance, Judy wasn't able to hide her disgruntlement as she wrapped up. "Further details regarding the Green Bomber sure to be coming to you live, after this quick break. Stay tuned."

John startled when the tube hummed off unexpectedly, and he turned to find Sherlock lacing his scarf into place. With a groan of despair, he said, "I should have known. Tell me you are not marching down there in order to inform that Judy person just what Helen so kindly decided not to tell her."

"I promise nothing," Sherlock answered, shrugging into his great coat, then looked at the doctor expectantly. "Coming?"

Stretching out an arm, John reached for his jacket. "Why exactly are we going?"

Sherlock strode towards the stairs. "Because Helen asked us to."

"Wha—? When did she—?"

Sherlock paused long enough to turn partially in order for John to see he was rolling his eyes. "Lestrade never yells at her. Ever. Not even with a megaphone. But who does he yell at?"

"…Us?"

Sherlock gave a half smile and continued leading the way.

Like a dog on a leash, John mused, throwing himself up from his chair to follow.