This story was previously published on my daughter's page. Writing and publishing the one story was supposed to get it out of my system, but it didn't work, so now I have my own page and am trying to finish up the stories floating around in my tiny little brain.
Thanks for reading and reviewing. Always appreciated. :-)
If anyone knows if I got the who/whom correct in paragraph 11, I'd love to know. Thanks.
Her
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sound of the giggle coming from the entry. John had brought home another one. He studiously ignored their entrance and went back to his Internet search.
"Sherlock, I'd like you to meet Christina," John said, interrupting his research. He glanced up briefly.
Conservative clothes. Dark brown fashion boots with 2" heels. Brown tweed skirt falling just below knees. Unassuming forest green turtleneck sweater. 5'5". 57, no, 58 kilograms. Mascara. Blush. Chunky necklace, not too showy. No rings or nail polish. Interesting. Paper cut on left middle finger. Scuffed boots from a rolling chair. Definitely an office worker. Nice smile. Straight teeth.
"Hello." He looked back to his computer. "Did you find anything?" he asked John.
"Um," John smiled apologetically at Christina who smiled back. "No. He wasn't there and no one had seen him."
"Damn."
"Is he always like this?" Christina asked.
"Yes. Can I get you something to drink?"
"No, thank you."
"I'll just get my, um. I'll be right back," John stammered before heading out the door and up the stairs to his room.
Sherlock looked up to see Christina surveying the room. He closed his eyes and let out a quick breath. Leave it to John to leave him alone with someone whom he was expected to be nice to. John had told Sherlock about her. The two had shared a cab ride two weeks ago and gone out several times since. He was under orders to be nice to her. "You may sit if you'd like."
"Thank you, but he'll only be a moment."
At that John came back in carrying a small duffle bag. He looked at her with concern, decided she'd survived being alone with his uncivilized roommate, and let out a relieved breath. "Ready?"
"Yes. It was nice to meet you." She took a step forward and held out a hand to Sherlock who looked at it blandly.
Right handed. How common. "Yes, I'm sure it was," he replied before giving his full attention back to his computer.
She gave a small laugh, patted his shoulder, then turned and headed back to John who took her hand and led her out of the flat.
Good, he thought. Now I can get back to- L'Air Du Temps perfume and lavender. Interesting combination. He wouldn't be seeing any more of John tonight.
Even before he entered the flat he knew that She was here. Again. That odd smell of L'Air and lavender hung in the air. He stifled a groan when he saw them cozied up on the couch, John's laptop propped up against Christina's bent legs. They laughed at what they were watching. "Hi, Sherlock," John said glancing up. Christina just smiled at him and gave a little wave. Sherlock gave them a sick smile and hung up his coat and scarf before disappearing into the kitchen. He retrieved a bottle of water from behind the container of preserved fingers in the fridge. His motions only faltered a fraction of a second when he heard them laugh again. He rolled his eyes. Why did John insist on this social custom of dating? He for one could not see any benefit in it. He walked with purpose to his desk in the living room and, sitting down, concentrated on the papers there.
The laptop clicked closed. "I have to go," Christina said giving John a lingering kiss, "I have an early meeting tomorrow."
"Will I see you tomorrow night?" John asked hopefully.
"Of course." She set the laptop on the coffee table and stood, stretching. She patted Sherlock's shoulder as she rounded the coffee table. "Goodnight, Sherlock. It was nice to see you again." She gathered up her coat and purse, and John went with her to see her out.
Sherlock closed his eyes as the scent of L'Air and lavender assailed him again. Maybe he could talk John into finding a different girlfriend. He'd been seeing this one for three weeks now. That did not fit John's modus operandi.
The show ended and Christina turned her smiling face up to John. How many days had he sat here with her? Not nearly enough he decided. Luckily she was the kind of person who was able to overlook Sherlock's often brash words. John liked her smile and her laugh. He was even surprised he liked her need for physical contact. He suspected that with anyone else he would have found it claustrophobic. He thought Sherlock was holding up rather well when she was around considering he wasn't the physical-contact sort. John would have to let him know he appreciated the effort it must be taking Sherlock to be nice to her.
He looked at his watch. "Are you hungry?"
"Starving," Christina replied with a smile, turning John's arm so she could read his watch, too.
"I'll run down and get some sandwiches from the deli," John said.
"Sounds wonderful."
He gave Christina a kiss before extricating himself from the couch.
"Want a sandwich?" he called to Sherlock who was sequestered in the kitchen with his microscope.
"No. Thank you," he added as an afterthought.
Christina gave John a knowing smile as he shrugged into his coat. "Be right back," he assured her as he bent to give her another quick kiss before heading out the door.
Christina sat on the couch a few moments more to cherish what had just transpired. She then set the laptop down and rose. Snuggling up to John to watch a show or read books had quickly become her favorite diversion. She easily lost track of how much time was passing while in his arms. For now she needed to stretch her legs before John returned.
She walked across the room and back several times, then wandered into the kitchen. She surveyed the array of items spread across the high kitchen table. It looked more like a lab to her than someone's kitchen. Leave it to two detective bachelors to utilize their unused kitchen as a research facility. "What are you looking at?" she asked as she came over to stand next to Sherlock.
He closed his eyes and steeled himself as her scent of L'Air and lavender wafted over him. He wished he could tell her to go back to the other room. But John really seemed to like her, so he'd play nice. For now.
"Blood samples."
She raised an eyebrow. "Really? Are they from different people or the same person?"
She'd moved fractionally closer as she spoke. She tended to do that. He found it annoying.
"That's what I'm trying to determine," he all but ground out. With relief he heard the downstairs door open. John's return meant the end of his social obligation.
"He's back," she said with a bright smile. She squeezed his shoulder and twirled to meet John at the door.
"Hi, Sherlock," Christina said entering the flat one rainy afternoon. "Is John here?"
Her again. "No."
"Mind if I wait for him? He texted me to meet him here."
"Make yourself at home," he said as nicely as he could manage. There was something about her that was irritating him, but he wasn't sure what. That fact didn't help his irritation any. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she shrugged out of her damp coat and hung it with her bag on the coat stand by the door.
Sherlock willed his hands to not form into fists as she came to stand behind his shoulder.
"What are you working on?" she asked leaning closer.
Sherlock closed his eyes as that familiar scent surrounded him. He snapped the laptop closed irritably just as the flat door opened.
"Look at you," she exclaimed rushing over to John. "You're soaking wet. As she helped John off with his wet slicker, Sherlock sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. Something wasn't right.
"Do you have a duster?" she asked.
"Hm?" Sherlock glanced up from his computer. She was here again. That girl John couldn't seem to stop seeing. Where was John to amuse Her?
"For the light." She pointed at the fixture hanging from the center of the living room ceiling.
"Next to the fridge," he replied.
Christina went into the kitchen and returned with the duster and a straight-backed chair. Sherlock watched surreptitiously as she set the chair under the fixture and stepped up onto it, stretching to reach into the crevices. Why was She here again? He had work to do, and She was keeping him from it.
"Ow," she gasped jerking back and reaching for her eye. Sherlock jumped up and put his hands to her waist steadying her before he even thought to move. The duster clattered to the floor.
"Thank you," she said putting one hand on his shoulder as she stepped down from the chair. "I've got something in my eye."
He looked around for John. Dang, he wasn't here, then pulled her over to the window. He prodded her head up with a hand to her chin. "Open your eyes."
"I don't think I can."
"Oh, just do it," he said irritably trying to pry the offended eye open with gentle fingers. "Look to the right. There it is." L'Air and lavender surrounded him. He made the mistake of focusing on her face. His breath caught as he looked into her tear-filled eyes which were now focused on him as well. He leaned closer. Her eyes widened.
The door opened and Sherlock jerked back. "Perhaps the bathroom mirror," he said.
"Good idea." She moved quickly away, one hand to her eye, and hurried past John to the bathroom. "Hi, John, be right back. Something in my eye."
John looked from Christina's retreating back to Sherlock who was standing at the window with his back to him. He shook his head and laughed at himself. Not in a million years, he thought as he took off his coat.
Sherlock reviewed what had just happened. His pulse was still racing and his breathing was erratic. He was mad at himself for offering to play nursemaid. John should have done that, he was the doctor. But John hadn't been here, he had sent him on an errand. He would have to make sure She wasn't expected before sending John off next time. This was one experience he did not wish to repeat.
Sherlock knocked on John's door. He needed his help tonight, and he didn't care if John was otherwise occupied.
"It's time to go," Sherlock said through the door.
John groaned. "Busy."
"I'll go alone then."
They heard Sherlock tromp down the stairs. They heard him curse.
Christina bit her lip. "Maybe you should go with him."
"What?" John couldn't believe his bad luck.
"You know he needs you," she said running a hand down his cheek.
"Will you be here when I return?"
She laughed, "That could be tomorrow. No, I'll go home. I'll take a rain check though. You'd better hurry; you'll lose him."
John gave her a quick kiss before shrugging back into his shirt and heading out the door.
Something was wrong. Sherlock knew it the moment he stepped into the flat in the wee hours of the morning. John mumbled a goodnight as he stumbled up the stairs to his room. Sherlock surveyed the room. Aside from the smell he was coming to associate with having an extra, part-time flat mate, there was something different. The papers on his desk were not as he'd left them. He hurried over and shuffled through them.
"Why would anyone- No, not anyone. Her." Christina had been here last night. Alone. Not just in the flat, but at his desk. He could smell Her scent as he shuffled through the papers.
He hung up his coat and picked up his violin. He heard John fall into his bed upstairs. The papers she'd taken hadn't been of any significance. Damn. He'd still have to talk to her about them. Maybe he could use her theft to convince her to stop seeing John. He raised his eyebrows as he pulled the bow across the strings. He wasn't above a little blackmail.
"That's odd."
"What's odd?" Sherlock asked absently.
"Her mobile has been disconnected."
Lovely, it was about Her. Yesterday had been splendid without Her. The only time She had been mentioned was when John had informed him that he wouldn't be seeing Her that night. She'd had other plans.
John punched up her work number and waited. And waited.
"Marketing," said an unfamiliar voice.
"Is Christina there?"
"No." There was a pause. "Um, she quit. Can I help you?"
He hung up confused. "She quit her job."
"Hm?"
"Why would she quit her job? She loved her job."
Sherlock thought about it a moment. "Don't care," he finally concluded. "Maybe you should go round and see if she's home," he suggested hoping to curtail any further talk on this subject. Yes, he needed to talk to Her about the missing papers, but he didn't feel any rush to do so.
John nodded and headed for the door, grabbing his coat on the way out.
John was about to push the buzzer again when the door opened and a couple came out. He grabbed the door before it closed and let himself into the lower hall of Christina's building. He hurried up the stairs and knocked on her door. He waited and knocked again. The door across the hall opened and an older woman poked her head out.
"She's not there," she said.
"Christina?"
"Yes. Aren't you that man she's been seeing?" she inquired coming further into the hall. "Had a row did you? Must have been a big one. She moved out yesterday morning. Left a mess that had the landlord hollering."
"A mess?"
"Most of her stuff. Says now he has to dispose of it. She dropped off her key and left with nothing more than a couple of suitcases."
John felt like someone had punched him in the chest. "Thank you," he managed to stammer as he headed none too steadily down the stairs.
Sherlock sat down on the bench next to John.
"How did- Never mind," John said dropping his head back into his hands.
"So, she's gone."
"Yes."
Sherlock nodded. Of course She was. But why? What had been so important about those papers that She'd had to take them and leave?
"Hello, Christina."
Christina froze at the sound of the voice she hadn't heard in four days. It was the last thing she had expected to hear while walking down the sidewalk near her new flat.
"John is worried about you."
She turned to see Sherlock leaning against the wall just inside the alleyway. She looked around before stepping closer.
"Is he alright?" she asked anxiously.
"Of course." Sherlock frowned. " Is that what they threatened you with? John?"
She looked down at her hands as they played with the pull on her purse.
He reached out and touched her cheek forcing her to look at him.
"I'm sorry. You'll tell him that, won't you?" she asked putting her hand over his in desperation.
He pulled his hand back. "You should tell him yourself."
"I can't. I don't know how you found me, but forget that you did. Please."
"What did you do with the papers?"
"I don't-" of course he knew. He was Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective. "I don't have them."
"Who did you give them to?"
"I can't say. I don't know his name. It was a go-between." She looked around again. "I have to go. Goodbye Sherlock." She bit her lip. "Tell John I'm sorry." She walked away.
She didn't brush away the tears that slipped from her eyes. She'd had to do it. The man had told her to get him the papers or John would be killed. Leaving John had been the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she would have had to do that anyway. She couldn't have stayed. Not with Sherlock acting so oddly. She couldn't come between them. It would hurt John too much to have to choose. She also was afraid she would have lost.
"You're telling me she stole papers off your desk to save me?" John asked incredulously.
"Yes," Sherlock replied. "It would seem someone threatened to have you killed if she didn't."
"Who would want me dead?"
Sherlock gave him a pointed look.
John let out a breath, sat back in his chair and moaned. There were unfathomable numbers of bad guys who would like to do both of them in given half a chance. The suspects were infinite in number.
"So she took the papers, turned them over to someone, then left? If the deed was done, why leave? "
"Isn't it obvious?" At John's blank look, Sherlock continued, "She left so they couldn't use her to get to you again."
"Will my life ever be normal?" John sighed scrubbing his hands across his face. They would have had choices. If only she had come to him with the threat. They could have worked something out. They could have figured out who was threatening her. He could have left with her. He stopped at that thought. Would he have done that? Would he have given up his dangerous, exciting life solving crimes with Sherlock? Hmm. Maybe she knew him better than he knew himself.
Two days later Lestrade met John and Sherlock at the morgue. He looked anxiously from one to the other.
"John," Sherlock said, taking the hint, "could you call this number," he pulled a slip of paper out of his inside coat pocket, "and see if there are any messages for me while I take care of this?"
"Um, yeah. Sure." John gave Sherlock an odd look as he took the paper from him. He then pulled out his mobile and turned away to make the call as Sherlock and Lestrade headed into the morgue.
"Who is it?" Sherlock asked.
"It's a girl who fits the description you gave us."
Sherlock hadn't wanted to hear that. He'd been telling himself that the body Lestrade wanted him to see was connected to a different case.
"Hello, Molly," he said as the morgue tech pulled the drawer out. His chest felt tight.
"Hi, Sherlock," she said with a small smile. She unzipped the bag and pulled it aside to reveal the body's face.
Sherlock sucked in a breath. It was Her.
"How?" he asked, almost choking.
"High powered sniper rifle," Lestrade answered.
"Sherlock, they said-"
"Damn. John," Sherlock said turning to intercept him.
"My God," John said turning ashen. "Christina."
Molly looked to Lestrade.
"Thanks, Molly."
She covered up the face and zipped the bag. It wasn't until Molly closed the vault door that John managed to move.
"She's dead," he said in disbelief.
"I'm sorry, John," said Lestrade.
"Let's go," Sherlock said gently, turning John and maneuvering him out the door.
Neither of them said anything during the cab ride home.
Once inside, Sherlock pushed him gently into a chair then handed him a glass of something and told him to drink it.
John took two gulps before his mind jerked into motion. She was dead. She had stolen from them. Granted, she had had her reasons, but she had chosen to steal from them rather than tell him what was going on. And now she was dead. It didn't make any sense. She had done what she'd been told to do. He hadn't made any contact with her. Why did they have to kill her?
The front bell buzzed and Sherlock went to answer it. He came back in, tearing open a messenger envelope. He pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. He must have made a sound because John got up and pulled the paper from his unresisting fingers.
It was a picture of Sherlock and Christina. They were standing just inside an alley. His fingers were touching her cheek. Across the bottom in black marker it was signed, "All my love, Moriarty."
"She gave the papers to Moriarty," John said, ignoring what the image implied.
"So it would seem. Don't you see, it didn't matter what she took. He only wanted us to know he could do it." And Moriarty had used her, he thought, to get to both of us.
The End