AN: OK...This story has a mind of it's own and I am but the conduit through which it wends its way onto the internet. My original idea was to attempt a cogent exploration of BBC Sherlock's emotional growth over the series and it included a liberal dose of adult situations. Now that the plot is winding down, those graphic scenes make absolutely no sense in the context of my attempts to write realistic characterisations.
So, I have completely deconstructed the last few chapters and torn out all the adult content. It fits pretty nicely into the sequels, though. Yes, sequels...with an 's'. I'm sorry. *shrugs helplessly* That just...happened.
Therefore, I am kicking this down to a 'T' from an 'M' because it doesn't even have any strong language or violence or...much of anything, really...because I've only rewritten the chapters I haven't posted yet. I apologise to the few hardy folks who have been reading it so far if they were hoping that there would eventually be a payoff.
Anyway, I still implore anyone with a minute or two to spare...please leave me some feedback.
Thursday evening, about 9 pm...
"You wear an engagement ring, but you aren't engaged to anyone," stated a pleasant-sounding British gentleman.
Veranda looked up from her phone and just blinked at him over her reading glasses. She had always loved a posh English accent but his warm baritone made it altogether irresistible. The young man behind it wasn't so bad either. His eyes were slightly too far apart, but they were set over a wicked pair of cheekbones. She'd always been told she had impressive bone structure, but it didn't hold a candle to his.
He continued, "Your plane was delayed and the group you were to meet up with is not here. Your phone, despite your carrier's multiple soothing reassurances, is not working. You are frightened and considering simply buying a ticket back to America, even though you have been looking forward to this holiday."
"Well," she said bitterly, "I'm certainly not here for the World Poker Tournament." She shoved her glasses on top of her head and frowned with distrust as she looked him up and down. He cut an impressive figure in a long, dark ulster over a modern-cut suit. It looked expensive...hell, he looked expensive...and far too aristocratic to be bothering someone like her. "How did you know about my ring?"
He looked out past the baggage carousels, waved dismissively and said, "You don't think about anyone when you adjust it. Yet, it still signifies something to you…" He looked back to her and his blue eyes locked onto hers.
Limpid blue eyes, she thought and then mentally scratched through. Somehow the word was properly descriptive, but it didn't seem right. It sounded like a portmanteau of limp and insipid; a wholly inappropriate adjective for the emphatic way he was staring at her. It was like he was trying to read the inscription off the side of her soul.
She wrenched her gaze back down to her troublesome phone and said, "I suppose you're either the greeting committee for the Greater London Society of Serial Killers or you are really, really bored while waiting for a friend."
He finally smiled and she realized he might not be quite as young as she first thought. Perhaps it was his haircut...it was somewhat long and made the most of his dark auburn curls. It was boyish and a bit unbecoming of a gentleman, even though she had an abrupt and fearsome desire to run her fingers through it. She twitched spastically at the image in her mind's eye. Where the hell did that come from? She didn't tend to daydream about men anymore. It wasn't worth the effort...she was probably old enough to be his mother, anyway. People might constantly mistake her for a prematurely grey 40, but the fact remained she was a still-prematurely grey 50 and should be acting her age.
He held out his right hand to shake and said, "Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to meet you…Veranda Erickson of Phoenix, Arizona."
She gave him her best business-style handshake and said, "Charmed, I'm sure. You read the sticker on my luggage, but I'm not from Phoenix."
He narrowed his eyes and said, "What about your luggage tag?"
She shrugged. "I moved to Flagstaff from Phoenix a couple years ago."
He took a step back and looked at her with a solemn and detached look in his eyes. "Your long-time lover died and you had to get away even though you despise change. You've worn the fake engagement ring for years longer, though. What did he think of that?" Her eyes widened and he intently tried to catch them, but she focused on the bridge of his nose instead.
The unbidden thoughts of how attractive he was were starting to form a raucous little conga line circling around her brain and she blushed as the pattern in the carpet suddenly became intensely interesting. Mumbling indistinctly, she said "He didn't care." She looked back up. "How did you know he was dead?"
He tilted his head and with a wry smile said, "You wouldn't travel alone if you didn't have to."
"He could have left me? Or I him?" She was starting to sense that it was a game to him.
"You don't have the lingering bitterness of a woman who has been left for a romantic rival…at your age…your age…you're much older than you look." He was appraising her carefully again and again her cheeks warmed with embarrassment.
She found she was tensely perched on the edge of the bench and surreptitiously tried to relax and sit back, but he started chuckling quietly. She stood up suddenly and found herself essentially eye-to-eye with the mysterious Mr. Holmes. She was only 5'8", but she had on her favorite boots with 3" heels. Between his willowy build and the sweeping coat, he appeared much taller than 6'.
"I've got to get going. My friends have to be at the hotel by now and they're going to be wondering what's happened to me." She didn't feel very confident and she knew it showed.
Apparently accepting the brush-off, Sherlock stepped out past her and said, "John! I need to use your phone."
Veranda turned to look behind her and saw a sandy-haired man, some years older and a good deal shorter than Sherlock, wearily walking toward them. He was chaffing under his messenger bag and obviously irritated with Sherlock's greeting.
John stopped next to Veranda as he eyed her warily and nodded politely before he began fishing in his shoulder bag for his phone. "When are you going to just get a second phone, Sherlock?"
"Why, when I can use yours?"
John shook his head as he powered his phone up. "Why don't you use hers?"
Sherlock looked a bit startled as he seemed to remember Veranda. "Oh, I suppose I should introduce you. Veranda Erickson, this is my flatmate Dr. John Watson. John, this is Veranda Erickson. An American...lady...that I've just been speaking with."
Sherlock busied himself with a text on John's phone as John shook Veranda's hand. "Pleased to meet you...Veranda. That's a bit of a strange name, isn't it?"
She was accustomed to people's comments and offered him her handy rejoinder, "My father was an architect and my mother was an interior decorator. I nearly got named Ramada."
John smiled and said, "Well, they're both a damn-sight better than porte cochere."
Sherlock brusquely handed the phone back to John. "We'd better be off."
John nodded at Veranda again and said, "It was nice meeting you. Enjoy your visit." He began walking away, but pulled up short when Sherlock didn't follow him.
"Oh, she's coming with us," Sherlock stated as if he were shocked that John hadn't already surmised as much.
Both John and Veranda looked at Sherlock in amazement and said in unison, "What?"
"Well, we can't simply leave her here, can we?" He looked incredulously at both of them.
Veranda shook her head. "I can take care of myself. I just have to get to the hotel."
Sherlock said gravely, "There is a gentleman over there who has taken a keen interest in you, Veranda. I don't know what he might be planning, but I doubt it would be pleasant."
She looked behind her and blanched. She had no idea who he was, but he was definitely scowling fiercely at their trio over the top of his newspaper. Sherlock and John looked like a vastly less dangerous option. "I don't know him," she said under her breath as she turned back.
"I didn't believe you would keep company such as that," Sherlock quipped. Will you accompany us back to our flat and stay for the night? The sofa is quite comfortable and I can assure your safety. We are both perfect gentleman."
John snorted derisively. "That's My…" Sherlock's incredibly fake smile shut him down instantly. He glared back as he tried to figure out what the elder Holmes' brother had done to merit being ignored so thoroughly. A second ticked by before the realization dawned that he was Mycroft and that was enough in Sherlock's mind. He began again, "That's my…thoughts exactly. He's perfect and I'm a gentleman. I don't have any objection. If you're lost, I'm sure we can help you out."
"I appreciate the offer, but I really can't impose on complete strangers. I need to get my phone working…I need to find my friends." She was shifting from foot to foot and her voice was rising in pitch with almost every word. Suddenly it dropped to a whisper, "I don't know where to start…"
"It's very simple." Sherlock made a 'ladies first' gesture. "Accompany us to the flat, get some sleep and start in the morning. It's late and you can't accomplish anything in the condition you're in currently."
John chimed in, his own bone-weariness a testament to how tired she must be after a much longer flight. "Yes, do. There's no point in arguing because Sherlock always wins."
Veranda hung her head before looking up at them both. "Thank you," she said simply before taking up the handle of her suitcase to follow Mutt and Jeff.
They had neared the exit when Sherlock suddenly announced, "Congratulations on the weight loss, by the way."
Veranda squeaked "What?" and was echoed seconds later by John.
Sherlock threw his hands up. "Really. I feel so alone sometimes. It's plain to see that all your clothes are new and a woman as practical as you would not buy an entire new wardrobe if it wasn't absolutely necessary."
"I could have lost everything in a fire...or...or...something..." she trailed off, knowing the jig was up.
"Your coat is several years old, your boots are nearing 20 and your suitcase has many miles on it." Sherlock smiled cryptically and continued, "Unless you had a house fire while you were away..."
Veranda sputtered, "How the hell do you know how old my boots are?"
Sherlock smiled more broadly and said, "While you did well and bought quality footwear in a timeless style...you did just have them into a cobbler to spruce them up...for your European holiday...because you are a practical woman who dislikes change." He set his shoulders and walked a little faster to indicate that the conversation was over.
Veranda looked at John, who simply rolled his eyes. "Get used to it. He's always like this."
As they walked out the door she remembered her rental car reservation. Sherlock waved it off when she mentioned it. "We live in a very congested area downtown. A car would cause far more trouble than it would be worth. You can get a hire car later if you wish, but for now we will use our normal mode of transport. Taxi!" He stepped off the curb and flagged down a cab.
Sherlock opened the rear door and flung himself to the far side of the forward-facing seat. John bowed slightly at Veranda and took her suitcase. He more-or-less threw it at Sherlock and then gracefully bade her to get in after it. She chose the rear-facing seat and John took the seat opposite her after closing the door. Sherlock appeared to already be long-lost in thought so John told the cabbie, "221B Baker Street, please."
Veranda was exhausted and the cab ride quickly lulled her to sleep. No sooner had her chin sunk to her chest when Sherlock turned to John and said, "Now about the…" He quickly trailed off when John began gesticulating wildly with much finger-slashing against his throat. He mouthed "Be quiet," and pointed to Veranda. Sherlock seemed taken aback, but he shrugged and sank back into his seat.
She awoke with a start when John opened the door and got out. Sherlock nearly stepped on her in his exit and she scrambled out after him. He was already inside and up the staircase while she followed John and tried to figure out a polite way to get her suitcase back from him. They were greeted in the foyer by a somewhat frumpy late middle-aged woman who cooed something unintelligible to John. He seemed frustrated and replied with just a few words that Veranda strained to hear, but couldn't understand. The lady tittered and went back from whence she came. John said, "That's our landlady, Mrs. Hudson."
Veranda asked, "How long has her husband been dead?"
John's eyes widened with a slight look of horror. "What makes you think he's dead?"
She shrugged and said, "She was married for so long that she came to define herself as a Mrs., but she doesn't wear a wedding ring. If she was divorced, she would prefer to be addressed by her first name rather than be reminded of her failed marriage. Though, I dare say, his death didn't cause her much grief."
John felt his stomach sink. "Why is that?"
Veranda shook her head slowly. "She'd still be wearing her wedding ring…and possibly his too, if she really was sad that he was gone." John groaned audibly and slowly climbed the stairs with Veranda's suitcase loudly bouncing off of each tread. Veranda, timid and flustered, brought up the rear.
John opened the door to the flat for her and said, "Welcome to our humble abode. Blame Sherlock if you don't like the decorating scheme." She smiled wanly and edged inside. Sherlock was already engrossed in his laptop and paid neither of them any mind.
John put down Veranda's luggage and his own bag before walking in front of Sherlock. He crossed his arms and cleared his throat. Sherlock slowly glanced up at him when he said, "I think I've found your sister."
Sherlock was phlegmatic. "Mother would be surprised. Have you told Mycroft yet?"
John threw up his hands and stomped his foot. "Sod it all!" He picked up his bag and stomped up the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock looked askance at Veranda as she stood in shock.
"I only asked him a question. Honestly."
Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "Perhaps he is just overly-tired, as I'm sure you are." He gestured over the screen at the sofa and then pointed through the kitchen. "The loo is the first door down the hall." He returned to his own world and left Veranda alone even as they were in the same room. She sank onto the couch and was asleep before she could wonder at his odd ways.
It was well after midnight and Sherlock was not asleep. He was in one of his trances, but definitely not asleep. His eyes snapped open as he heard John's bed upstairs creak as he rolled over. Sometimes he envied John and although he had told him as much, John never seemed to believe him. Was ignorance really bliss? He knew that was an answer he would never have.
"Seven American Tourists Go Missing From LHR," read the hyperlink. Sherlock clicked on it as he peeked at the woman passed out on his sofa. It was a mere blurb which stated simply that seven Americans were traveling as a group and had disappeared from Heathrow after they made it through Customs and Immigration with no issues. The missing persons were Carl and Morgan Carlsson, Marc and Elliot Kettering-Thorpe, Gerry Nilsson, Viktoria Eklund and Veranda Erickson. The two couples' children had reported them missing when their parents had not answered any phone calls, texts or emails after they were supposed to arrive in London. "Missing without a trace," stated the article.
Sherlock looked pensive. "Wrong," he muttered under his breath. There were so many security cameras everywhere these days that there was no way to kidnap 6 people without someone seeing something. Whoever had gotten them knew that and had planned accordingly. Their plot had developed a hole in it, though, and he had pulled Veranda through it at Mycroft's insistence.
He had just begun to ponder how long it would take before the error would be noticed and an attempt to correct it would be made when Veranda groaned and sat up. She unzipped her boots, pulled them off and then carefully zipped them back up before setting them down so they wouldn't fall over. She lay back down, groaned again, turned to face the back of the sofa and promptly fell back asleep.
Sherlock steepled his fingers and briefly retraced the day's events while cataloguing the pertinent facts for later use. He sincerely wished Mycroft had given him something more to work with instead of merely cajoling him into being a babysitter. He was between pressing cases and in danger of getting bored. No one was safe when he was bored. He grinned proudly back at the smiley face he had spray-painted on the wall behind the sofa months ago and then promptly riddled with bullets from John's pistol.
He sighed bitterly at Veranda's sleeping form. 'Don't let her out of your sight and don't let her be murdered' were Mycroft's only instructions. Keep the woman alive...how predictable...how dull. She was here now, though, and for the time-being he had to watch after her even if it rankled him immensely. He supposed he would be too irritated to succumb to his ennui for at least a couple of days, so perhaps it was a small blessing in disguise.
Carefully closing his computer and hearing John's chiding voice in his head, he quietly got up and left for his own bedroom. Once there, he hesitated for a moment before pulling a blanket off his bed and walking back to the sitting room. He spread it over Veranda, but she never stirred. He watched her thoughtfully for another minute before returning to his bedroom and silently shutting the door.