The stage lay before me, lights dimmed so the spotlight shone all the brighter. It was a small stage, situated at the far end of a cozy restaurant, but it was still a stage, and that was what mattered. I'd spent years of my life fighting for the limelight, and, as small as it may have seemed, this was it. Here's hoping I didn't embarrass myself.

I stepped to center stage, pausing briefly before removing my coat. Only two tables were occupied; an older woman sat alone in a corner booth, and two men were far more preoccupied with each other at a window seat than they were with me. That was alright. I'd get their attention somehow. Taking a few deep breaths, I tossed my coat over the wooden chair behind me. Beneath it, I'd worn a simple emerald green, knee-length dress and black leggings with white stars dotting them. Black, leather boots rose almost to my knees, and the slight heel boosted me to just above five feet. A burgundy scarf was wrapped around my neck, and I draped it over my coat before removing a matching cloche hat from my head. I tucked one of my chin-length curls behind my ear and clasped my hands in front of me, signaling to the restaurant owner that I was ready.

"Ladies and gentleman," he said, briefly grabbing the attention of the restaurant's three patrons, "I have a special treat for those of you here tonight. This dear girl," he gave a rather ridiculous sweeping gesture in my direction, "has agreed to lend her voice to make your dining experience all the more pleasant." I watched the two men as he spoke, for the woman seemed to be far too engrossed in her coffee to pay attention. As the owner, Mr. Greeves, said this last bit, the taller of the two men, who almost had his back to me, made a face and rolled his eyes, turning to face the other man. Slightly offended by this point, I heard the tall man mutter something, and the shorter man scolded him, making small gestures in my direction. They make a cute couple, I thought to myself. The shorter one wore a thick sweater that almost matched the fair beige of his hair. All I could see of the taller one was a mop of dark curls atop the turned up collar of a black duster. Every once in awhile, he'd turn ever so slightly so I'd catch a glimpse of cheekbone. Hot damn, that is one hell of a cheekbone.

"I present Mary Fisher, singing...erm. What are you singing?" Mr. Greeves asked. Suddenly all eyes in the room were on me, including both pairs from the window seat. My God, I don't think I've ever seen someone so disinterested, I thought, meeting the gaze of mop-top. Beneath thick eyebrows, the mere look in his eyes made me want to slap him. And possibly kiss him. Beside him, the shorter man smiled at me encouragingly. The pair of them were quite a sight. I wondered how things went along at home. I looked away, back to Mr. Greeves. I could feel the burning blush creeping up my face. Mr. Greeves gazed at me expectantly, still waiting for an answer.

I gripped the microphone stand with one shaking hand and cleared my throat, ignoring the sensation of bored and overtly interested eyes watching me. "I...I, um. I'm going to sing Teenage Dream. By Katy Perry."

A badly muffled groan sounded from the window booth. My mouth opened reflexively to say something, but Mr. Greeves interrupted my thought. "Do you have a CD to play or something?"

I shook my head. "I'm going to sing it a capella, if that's alright." Mop-top made quite possibly the most sarcastic "ooh!" sound that I had ever heard in my life. Briefly, I let myself imagine storming over to the window booth and dumping that entire glass of ice water over his, presumably, smug face. However, the figurative sight of the shorter man's shocked and appalled expression was enough to keep me onstage, and with a wave of Mr. Greeves' hand, I began to sing.

John

The girl onstage began to sing, and while she made her way through the first verse, I glared at the self-satisfied face across from me.

"My God, could you be any more abrasive?"

Sherlock glanced up from his mobile, seeming genuinely surprised for a moment. "What could you possibly mean, abrasive?"

"Abrasive as in I could see the transformation from curiosity to the urge to strangle you happen in less than five minutes. Which is somewhat of a record. What are you doing?"

Eyes fixated on the screen in his hands, Sherlock replied, "Missing persons case."

"Interesting, is it?" I laced my fingers on the table in front of me.

"Interesting, yes. Difficult to solve, no. I'm just checking the tube schedules for the last two weeks and-yes. Yes! Brilliant!" His voice rose to a shout, and I quickly kicked him under the table.

"Would you shut up? That poor girl is trying to sing," I scolded him, looking around him at the singer. As much as she tried to ignore us, her eyes kept darting in our direction before facing off into space again. She really was talented. Her voice rose and fell almost effortlessly with each line. As she cycled through the chorus a second time, I wondered how such a voice could fit into such a tiny creature.

"Trying, to be sure. She could have chosen a decent piece of music, though," he muttered, thumbs jabbing away at his phone.

"Have you even been listening to a word she's sung? Do you even know this song?"

"Top of the charts for three weeks running, played on every station at least four times a day in every cab we've been in," he said as his thumbs slowed down and he raised his eyes to look at me briefly, "How could I not?"

"Okay, but I know you haven't been listening, and after those silly little remarks, you really should-"

"She's a soprano. She's never been classically trained and her s's whistle ever so slightly. She's American, probably from the southeast and she just got over a cold, which is probably why she didn't try something with a larger range."

I resisted the urge to kick him again. So bloody clever,I thought, irritated. The girl's song came to its end, and she fell silent, standing stiffly with the general expression of a deer in headlights. Absolutely terrified, and awful at hiding it. As the silence grew long, I waited for even a single clap. She was visibly holding her breath. Clearing my throat, I clapped for her. Why shouldn't I? She's good, I thought. I shot Sherlock an angry look, which he was too distracted by his phone to see, so I kicked him under the table hard enough to make him grunt. He glared at me, and I nodded towards the girl on stage, clapping a little louder so he'd get the hint. Rolling his eyes, he began to do a ridiculous looking golf clap.

Mary

That's it then. I was going to throw up. Right here, right now. I could feel the bile at the back of my throat. I don't know what I'd been thinking when I took this gig. As I'd fallen silent, so had the room. Even Smartypants McCurlyHair in the back seemed otherwise occupied. I briefly considered faking a heart attack when a single clap broke the silence and made me jump. This clap was followed by a steady stream of others, and I noticed that the clapping was coming from Smartypants's friend. After a moment punctuated by a pained grunt, Smartypants joined in the clapping. I couldn't help but smile. The shorter man in the booth was smiling at me in sort of a forced fashion. I noticed that every few seconds he'd redirect his gaze to his friend, glare at him, and return to smiling at me. I stifled a giggle and curtseyed, looking for Mr. Greeves. I found him behind the counter, and he waved me on, gesturing for me to sing another song. The second one came easier, and I was able to lose myself in the melody.

A little under an hour later, I found myself leaned against the brick wall of the restaurant, watching taxi after taxi pass me by. The air had gained a crisp chill, and as it picked up the edge of my scarf, making it flutter against my cheek, I had to repress a shiver.

"Cold out, isn't it?"

I yelped and jumped almost a foot to the side in surprise.

"Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." The voice was soft and kind. I turned to see the shorter man from the window booth. "I'm John. John Watson."

I smiled, sinking into my oversized scarf as best I could. "I'm Mary Fisher. Nice to meet you." I reached out one nearly numb hand to shake his.

"Your voice is incredible, by the way. Absolutely amazing."

I replaced my hand in my pocket, looking at the ground for a moment. "Thank you. That really means a lot." Remembering the other half of the duo, I asked, "Didn't you come here with someone?"

I saw his eyes almost roll for a moment. He closed his eyes and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be Sherlock. He's, uh. He's in the loo. Listen, I'm sorry about him."

"No, it's okay. People are entitled to their own opinions, you know. Oh look, speak of the devil," I said, watching Mop Top make his way to the front door. "Listen, I really need to go."

"Oh, no, wait. He-"

I cut John off as I began to walk away, desperately wanting to avoid a conversation with both of them. "No, look, it's fine. Really! He's cute though."

John looked confused. "What?"

As Sherlock came through the door, I said over my shoulder, "You make a wonderful couple!"

John

"You make a wonderful couple!"

I stared after Mary, speechless for a moment. Then I looked at Sherlock, who had the most infuriating look of amusement I'd ever seen. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"I am not gay!" I yelled after her. She simply kept walking. I could feel Sherlock wanting to say something. "What?"

"Did I get in the way of something?"

"Shut up."

Mary

Sometimes, I would have liked my interactions with those two to stop there. However, with my luck, just one meeting was enough. Meeting them often fluctuated between good and bad luck. Looking back at myself, vest full of explosives strapped to my chest and nothing more on me than a cellphone full of instructions, I'd say that at the start, it definitely wavered over bad luck.

A text arrived, giving me a phone number to call. I called it.

"Sherlock Holmes speaking."

Fear tightened my throat, almost making it impossible to speak. As I put the phone on speaker, another text arrived with my script.

"H...Hello Mr. Holmes. For this case, I will give you eight hours. If you fail," I fought against my lungs as they tried to hyperventilate, "This songbird will die. What a shame that would be."