Sherlock One-Shot:

"Where did I. . ."

John struggled to fish through each pocket with one hand as he simultaneously tried to balance the weighty paper bag filled to the brim with recently-bought groceries. According to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had been living off tea and take-out for the last week when John had finally given up and went shopping for the bloke. He was rather proud of himself, managing to remember the essentials, such as butter, veggies, and biscuits. However, he had his mind set on a chicken stew for himself this evening after Mary had mentioned seeing a recipe on the web recently. Turns out cooking suits her, occasionally.

His fingertips brushed across something cool and metal in his left, back pocket. Yes! He eagerly swept the key out and slipped it into the lock just mere moments before the bag threatened to tumble to the side. The eggs would not have appreciated that. At last, he entered 221B Baker St and rested the bag by the bottom of the staircase. After that victory at the front door, he's earned a break.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called, her shoes tapping toward John, agitated. John shook his head. Of course he'd arrive when the ass wasn't home.

"No. no… It's me, Mrs. Hudson." John responded, sliding off his coat as Mrs. Hudson came into view, face flushed with worry.

"Oh! John, so glad you're here!" she fluttered her hands about him, gently leading him up the stairs, "A woman came in early this morning, asking – no, pleading! – for Sherlock's help! I told her Sherlock has been out since last night, but she insisted on waiting until he returned. She said she was from out of town and she had no place to go back to. I couldn't just leave her at our doorstep! I -"

"Ok, ok!" John steadied her as they finally reached the top of the steps, staring back into her widened eyes, "Don't fret, I'll tend to this woman until Sherlock gets back from wherever he is." His words visibly eased her, Mrs. Hudson settling into place.

"Ah, lovely! Thank you, I've been fretting all morning about it! Sherlock has been gone for so long and I have no clue when he'd be back." Nothing new, he thought, internally rolling his eyes. With that, Mrs. Hudson straightened her apron and started to make her way downstairs.

"I will get about making something for lunch." She calls over her shoulder, her face wrinkling in a smile. How quickly that woman switches from panicked to cheerful moods. Sighing, John shook his head wearily and turned to open the door to his former flat.

Sitting patiently in John's chair was a young woman, staring vacantly at the old rug at her feet. Her eyes flashed to John as the door slid closed, her face a mixture of fear and hope.

"Dr…Watson?" she guessed unsurely, eyeing him from head to toe. She had a melodious voice, almost a croon, with an accent that he couldn't place. Her eyes were a gentle almond shape that glimmered like a brown and green jewel in the soft light of the morning sun streaming into the flat.

"Ah, yes. Yes, that's me." he chuckled awkwardly, stepping over to Sherlock's chair, "John, is fine."

". . . John." she repeated, a half smile on her rosy lips. Their eyes met briefly, until she broke it off, blinking at the wall. She was uncomfortable, that much was obvious. Her legs crossed tightly, arms wrapped loosely around her torso. She donned a beige coat, with only a hint of a dark green turtleneck dress peeking from below the coat. Her bare legs curved toward the floor, her skin a healthy shade of color. She wore casual flats, very dull to look as opposed to everything else about her.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long." John started affably.

She looked back at him from under long lashes, hazel eyes soft, "I arrived quite early, I didn't expect to be helped soon." American? John wondered curiously. Her accent was hard to place. Each word had a different curve, a nuance.

"Mrs. Hudson says you're from out of town?"

She hesitated, "Y-yes." Her voice wavered, once again unable to meet his gaze, "If it is alright with you… I would prefer to wait until Mr. Holmes arrives. It's a rather… extensive story."

"Right." He smiled at her, hoping to ease her, "Of course, once he arrives, I'm sure we could find a way to help you." At that, her eyes flashed up to him with sudden interest.

"Mrs. Hudson mentioned you had gotten married, and moved out. I didn't think the two of you still worked together." She murmured, tilting her head curiously at him. It was an enticing movement. He wasn't sure what to make of her, whether she was attempting to seduce him or put him off. But at the moment, all he could think of is how her olive-toned eyeshadow enhanced the flecks of green in her irises.

"Yes, I have… gotten married and-uh-yes." I sound like a bloody idiot! He cleared his throat, "But yes, Sherlock and I are still business partners, just not as extensively as we used to be when I stayed here."

She nodded slowly, "I see."

There was a long pause, John gulping as the woman continued to study him with an odd gleam in her eye. Her legs had loosened during their conversation, now one leaning casually on the other with her forearms resting on her knees. There was a different feel in the air. A silence filled with unsaid intentions. Just then, the faint sound of a tea kettle's whistle pierced the silence. John forced himself to keep his eyes on her heart-shaped face.

"Forgive me, I didn't get your name." he made his tone louder, more professional. He hoped it would clear his muddled mind. The woman lowered her eyes, giving him a bashful smile through those lashes.

"Ah, yes," she chuckled to herself, "how rude of me." To his surprise, she got to her feet and curtsied. Curtsied, "Beata Piersack. Odd name, I know." John watched wide-eyed as she remained standing, looking around awkwardly before shuffling back to return to John's chair.

"Beata? It's –ah- pretty." Still slightly stunned at the gesture, the compliment came out forced. Beata blushed, brushing a lock of dirty blonde hair behind her ear.

"My mother was a fan of exotic names." She shrugged, not meeting his eyes. Her hair came down in luscious waves, a golden brown cascade resting against her slim neck. Jesus, get it together!

The door opened, revealing Mrs. Hudson with a small tray of teacups and biscuits. John let out a soft sigh of relief. She could not have come too soon. With her usual foolish grin, she came and lowered the tray onto one of the side tables. Beata turned to her with a grateful smile in return, thanking Mrs. Hudson.

"Please, join us for tea, Mrs. Hudson." Beata urged fondly, standing up to place a gentle hand on her back, "You've been the most hospitable person I've met, please take a rest." She gestured to the extra chair beside her. Mrs. Hudson blinked, taken aback by her offer.

"Me? Join you? Oh, you sweet thing!" she exclaimed loudly, seeming genuinely touched, "Why, I don't remember the last time anyone has asked me to join them for tea in this house!"

"Surely Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes treat you for tea every now and then." John's ears turned red at the woman's words. As kind and meaningful she was, Mrs. Hudson was difficult to bear for longer than five minutes. The idea of humoring her for a whole session of tea was horrifying. Just her going on and on about the most menial and mundane. Even John had a threshold for exposure to pointless and boring conversation.

"Oh, dear me, no!" she laughed freely, unoffended, "The boys have far more important things than to indulge an old woman like me for tea." She continued to laugh, Beata watching with a curious smile on her face. John was left with a dumb grin on his face watching the two, not sure whether to attempt to defend himself or to speak at all. Beata made no notice, her attention on Mrs. Hudson.

"Something funny?"

Everyone turned simultaneously at the baritone voice at the doorway. There stood Sherlock at the door, as silent and ominous as an apparition. His sharp eyes scanned everyone in the room with a mixture of disdain and interest on his stern expression. He was in a mood, the dark circles under his eyes telling John that he had not slept for some time. Over his shoulder was an old gym bag, filled tightly with things from wherever he had been. Despite his worn-out demeanor, he was actually dressed rather well, as if he'd gone to an opera or a dinner out.

"Sherlock! Dear me, where have you been all this time out? Gone so long and not even a word to let us know what where you've disappeared to!" Mrs. Hudson was about to take a step towards him when Sherlock shot her an icy stare, stopping her cold.

"John. I see you've taken the liberty of commandeering my flat while I'm away." Sherlock's eyes flashed to John, his iciness only waning fractionally, "And you're in my chair. Do you not remember how this works? Married life may be deteriorating your brain faster than I predicted. Pity." Rolling his eyes, John pushed himself up as Sherlock strolled passed to toss his bag onto the sofa by the wall, returning to fall back into his favored chair.

"Now, now, Sherlock. I let her up into the flat. The poor girl is desperate for your help, and I suggest you do something before she faints from despair." Mrs. Hudson cried, unrepentant as she turned to walk out and shut the door. Sherlock only acknowledged her remark with a slow eye roll of his own before targeting his gaze on the woman that now stood before them. Her previous comfortable manner was replaced with the same frightened guardedness John witnessed when he first came in. She seemed to wilt beneath Sherlock's intense stare.

"Mr. Holmes, I – er – it's a pleasure to finally meet you." She curtsied once more, giving him the same soft eyes beneath her lashes she'd been tossing John. Sherlock interlocked his hands, not moving his eyes off her.

"Mrs. Hudson said you needed help." He started, "I imagine John had not asked for details the entire time he was here. Not surprising."

"No, I wanted to wait until you were here so I wouldn't have to repeat anything. My situation is a bit…distressing to say the least." She admitted, wrapping her arms around her torso. John imagined she felt like a, insect under a microscope, exposed for Sherlock's piercing eyes to study.

"Beata, please." John moved a chair closer so that she could sit. Giving him a grateful glance, she took it. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Beata?" he repeated flatly, lips pursing.

"Yes, my apologies, Mr. Holmes. My name is Beata Piersack." She told him, meeting his stare, "And…I do need your help, quite desperately." Her voice cracked at the end, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of red, "I…I believe it's a matter of life and death."

Sherlock raised a brow, "How exciting." He replied, his tone not proving his words, "Please." He gestured for her to continue. Beata nodded, leaning forward as she formulated how to explain everything.

"Thank you." She smiled unexpectedly, but it disappeared just as quick, "You see, I have been on the run for the past two months. I abandoned what little family I had back home after I felt that my staying there would bring them harm."

"Where is 'home' exactly?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing.

"I was born in a small town by Cape Horn. Not on the islands, but very close to the seaside. Close enough to enjoy its beauty but far enough to avoid the monthly swarms of tourists. My family moved there from Australia when I was very young. It's where I consider home." She drifted slightly, eyes distant, before blinking into focus once more, "Anyway, it was only recently that I noticed that, everywhere I went, the same man would come up as well. In my neighborhood, at the market, even sometimes near my family's property. The same man, every time"

"Do you know him? Have you ever met him before?"

She shook her head, "No, never. He must have been following me for some time now, but I have only noticed about two and half months ago. The man would get braver, closer and even some of my family members would even see him. It terrified me." She closed her eyes, shuddering.

"But this man has never made a move against you? Tried to harm you or anyone you knew?"

"That's the thing: he hasn't done anything!" she frowned unhappily, marring her lovely face, "He just stands or sits there, moving only when I gather my courage enough to confront him. He's like a ghost, Mr. Holmes. Comes and goes without a trace."

"This man, what does he look like?" John piped in, suddenly very interested. Her situation, while not dire, was troublesome indeed. A beautiful woman such as her would need to be aware should something terrible befall her. What was puzzling was why this creep would follow her family members as well. She turned her hopeless gaze to him.

"He's middle aged, at least in his forties. Blonde hair, turning grey at the temples. Very sallow cheeks, and small dark eyes, like beetles in his sockets. He always dressed in a sweater and blue jeans. Nothing strange, which I think is the tricky part. He looks actually almost…normal." John nodded, her frightened expression pained him. He turned to Sherlock, hoping he had something for her, any quick assurance that she was going to be ok.

Instead, Sherlock was a dark and stormy in his chair. His pale blue eyes swam with a million different thoughts, his mouth a thin, hard line. Based on what John saw, he almost seemed to have tuned them out completely. Sighing heavily, he turned to Beata once more. She stared wide-eyed at her lap, still disturbed by her own story.

"Strange." He muttered, wracking his mind for other things he could learn. There had to be something he could do to help her, "What do you think he might be after? Are you involved in anything odd? Anything that someone would want to know about? Maybe own something you didn't realize was valuable?" Beata blinked at him, thoughtful.

"No, not that I know of. My father works as a dockworker for a fishing company while my mother stays at home. We weren't wealthy by any special means, nor do we own many trinkets or baubles." She turned to Sherlock, his dark expression unchanging, "Please, Mr. Holmes." She pleaded, putting the full effect of her lovely face to Sherlock, "There is no one better in all of England, no one more highly regarded in these matters. If anyone could help me -"

"Anyone could help you." Sherlock interrupted suddenly, breaking his own reverie, "Literally anyone. You could hire a bodyguard; go to your country's government. The police, anyone. But why here? Why would you travel all the way from South America to London?" He leaned forward, "Why me?"

She was taken aback, "I can't go to anyone, he would know. He could hurt or threaten me or my family. I could go to the police, but I have no actual proof. They would just keep me there or give me some useless bit of advice." She shook her head, panicked now, "No, no. You are the only one who could help me." She watched him, her delicate face blanching as she at last realized that Sherlock might reject her. John glanced between the two, bewildered.

"Sherlock." He faced his unsettled friend, keeping his tone all-business. "You can't just leave her like this. There has to be something we could look into."

"I'll give you any sum of money. I…I have little left on me after so much travel, but I can wire money from my father's retirement. He knows my situation and greatly respects-"

"Enough." Sherlock retorted, standing up brusquely. Both John and Beata looked up at him in shock, "This was a fun little game, but it's over now. I've seen through it."

"Sherlock?" John exclaimed, eyebrows flying up.

Sherlock kept his eyes on Beata, his once-stormy gaze now cleared and full of open accusation. Has he gone mad? He towered over the poor girl, now instinctively leaning against the back of the chair she sat in. Lips quivering, she stared back in misery. John was ready to get in between them, unable to stand by as Sherlock appeared to instigate the grief-stricken woman that threatened to break into tears any second now.

Then she laughed.

He froze. What a strange sound. Her laugh, as pleasant as her voice, was a sound of pure amusement, maybe even joy. A child's laugh. Mouth agape, John placed himself beside Sherlock to get a better view of her face. Beata sat in the chair, no longer the small and frightened girl, but relaxed and smiling. No - smirking. She seemed to age five years in the span of seconds. All her gentle lure and kind-hearted innonence had vanished. Instead, she had an aura of confidence that wasn't there before. She met Sherlock's laser-like eyes with her own sharp stare, nothing like how she shriveled beneath it before. John had not been this confused in a long time.

"You see through it, do you?" she said, giving him a teasing look.

Sherlock nodded once, "To be completely honest, I wasn't sure. At least not until now." He tilted his head to one side, "You're either very good at convincing yourself or you make a very convincing lie. Sorry to break it to you, but you do have a tell. Although a quite ingenious one, if I must say so." His last remark made her smile coyly at him.

"Wait, wait-" John interrupted, frustrated, "What's going on? You're saying she made up everything?"

Beata turned to John, stilling him with a single look. It was like looking at a different person. It was the same face, the same body but the way she moved was completely contrary than before. She sat in the chair, arms resting in her lap as her legs crossed calmly. Shoulders back and chest out, she put all her attention to Sherlock's towering form in front of her. Looking him over appreciatively, she slowly got to her feet. They watched wordlessly as she ambled freely about the flat, running her gaze across everything.

"…Tells are curious things." She crooned softly, almost in a sing-song, "Most everyone has one, most all of them are unwilling, subconscious. Except people fail to understand is that one can change them, or omit them completely." She tosses him a demure glance, "If one must have a tell, is it not better to have one that helps the story?"

Sherlock crossed his arms, scrutinizing her every move, "So you're a good liar," he deduced, "and you retrained yourself to have a tell to act through flirtatious touches and movements. Must work like a charm –well, except for this time."

"Jesus…" John let out a shocked chuckle, crossing his arms and shaking his head. All this time, he was falling for it. He felt it, but his mind overlooked the obvious. He was so glad Sherlock wasn't there to see him make a fool of himself before.

There was a heavy silence as they waited for her to speak. She stopped walking, eyeing a book that sat dusty on the bookshelf by the fireplace.

"…Inquisitive," she murmured, more to herself it seemed, "Powerful memory, get through one book and you're done with it. Let it collect dust with the others. Or so you'd like to think…"

Sherlock cleared his throat, "If you'd like to explain who you really are and why you're here, that would really hurry this up." He told her petulantly. She finally turned to look at him, her eyes betraying no emotions now. They were as blank as an empty canvas.

"Hmm." She hummed curiously. It was her turn to examine him. "I didn't' expect for you to be… an addict."

He sighed heavily "I'm not an addict." Sherlock replied crossly, getting tired of that accusation. Beata gave an empty smile. She seemed to grow more blank and emotionless with every word she spoke.

"I imagine you go hours without food, days even. You're thin, but not overly so that others notice. You must not use regularly, rather it's an occasional jump off the wagon. With your height, you can pull it off as a quick metabolism." Her eyes narrowed, "You're highly intelligent, capable of remembering the smallest, seemingly insignificant details and somehow shooting yourself up sounded like a good idea to you." She clicked her tongue disapprovingly, like a stern mother, "What is your poison of choice, I wonder…"

"I see you're no stranger to being perceptive." Sherlock responded coolly, "If you refuse to tell us who you are I might as well have a little fun." He regarded her with one sharp glance, taking a deep breath,

"While you made your accent particularly difficult to place before, you currently have a slight Spanish accent, regular not Castaneda Spanish. Your outfit is too thin and bare, with only a single coat to protect you. You're not from around here, still not accustomed to English weather nor dressing for it. Your shoes are flat, walking shoes but not for long periods of time. You walked here but you must have taken the train or the bus as well. No luggage or even a handbag, you must have stopped somewhere else before here. You have friends here, but friends you don't particularly like too much. No phone or wallet, no sign of a struggle, you haven't been robbed but you have no necessity to carry them around. Odd, especially in our day and age." He paused, eyes locked on her impassive expression. She made no obvious reaction to any of his remarks, "You're in hiding, or on the run. GPS is too risky for you. You may indeed have someone chasing you but you must know why, who, and where he or she is. A good liar on the run? Sounds like either a criminal, or a person of interest for powerful criminals, even maybe a government. A spy?"

The room was quiet, Beata cocked her head, "Is that everything?" she smiled, as empty and meaningless as the others. Sherlock gave a return smile, smug.

"No, but that's all I care about."

"Pity, I enjoyed listening. You are quite the imaginative one."

"I'm asking you for the last time: who are you?" Sherlock pressed once more, her cryptic comments testing his patience now, "Why did you come here?" John watched in rapt silence, still struggling to piece together what was happening here.

Beata gave him her full attention, "I had to see how observant the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes was." She answered, not sarcastic in any way, "I had to see if he was as good as everyone said."

"So that's it? You came here with some fake story to test me?" he scoffed, pacing away slowly to his chair, "Well, I passed. I dismissed the lie. Congratulations. Now you can tell your betters what I am capable of."

"Yes." She paused, "Well. That's not the whole of it..."

"And are you ever going to tell us?" John asked suddenly, annoyed, "Tell us who you are, I mean." She gave him a pointed stare. It was like staring at the tip of a blade.

"When the time is right." She responded, "Time dictates everything, Dr. Watson. I'm sure you understand this." John met her expectant stare, as if he was supposed to understand what she meant.

Sherlock sighed, exasperated, "Well if you're going keep us in suspense because of 'time' then you might as well leave, I'm beginning to lose interest." The woman turned to him, smiling a cat's smile.

"You don't like not-knowing." She pointed out, entertained, "It irritates you. I must say, you're rather cute when you get all irritated." She saw Sherlock scowl and sighed, "Forgive me, I'm not laughing at you. Just trying to have a bit of fun before I do what I came here to do."

John and Sherlock exchanged glances, "And what did you come here to do?" John asked warily. She looked at him, almost sad.

"You see, I still need your help after all. I was to give your brother a message." She murmured sweetly, as if she spoke to a small child, "Mr. Mycroft Holmes." She turned to Sherlock, who now looked at her in surprise.

"Mycroft?" he asked her, genuine confusion seeping in now. However, she was finished talking.

She looked him dead in the eye, no more games.

"Please tell Mycroft that we don't appreciate threats."

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask the hundred new questions that filled his head, but just a second after she finished speaking, her hand slid into her beige coat and pulled out a silenced pistol, aiming it straight at Sherlock's chest. John could only watch in horror as she pulled the trigger without hesitation, at the last second lowering the gun to aim at Sherlock's lower torso.

The gunshot sound bounced around the room, even silenced still sounding like snapping a thick tree branch. The bullet itself audibly pierced and exited Sherlock's body, the round hitting the wall behind him with a thud. The force of being shot point blank knocked him off his feet as he stumbled backwards, tripping over the legs of a chair and falling. There was a heartbeat of shock before John leapt at the woman, reaching for the gun.

She was too quick. It only took a swing of her arm to shift the direction to aim at John Watson and once more she pulled the trigger. He felt the bullet pierce his shoulder, tearing muscle and grinding on bone. Only faintly did he feel the bullet fly out his body and into the wall with another thud. He cried out as he fell to the floor, old flashes of his time in the war appearing before his eyes. Another shoulder gunshot? That has to be a sign of good luck, or something. He wondered, amused in the most strange way.

Sherlock, only momentarily stunned by the gunshot, had clamored to his feet and witnessed John falling to the ground, the blood from his exit would sprayed against their weathered wallpaper.

"John!" In a fit of adrenaline, he ran at the woman. Or at least attempted to. She was no stranger to close quarter combat, that much was obvious. Even in her dress, she used his own momentum by twisting her body enough to redirect his poorly calculated attack to slam him into the wall, knocking over the tray of tea and biscuits with a satisfying crash. The gunshot wound, combined with his slamming into the wall, threatened to overwhelm him with pain. Groaning, he slid to the floor, vision darkening.

They had vastly underestimated her. Sherlock realized this now. It hadn't crossed his mind that she would actually shoot them, whatever her reason. If she was indeed a spy, the most she could have done was make a daring escape and disappear into the city. No, she had come to send a message. To Mycroft, of all people. That was the twist in this whole mess. She knew Mycroft and, most likely, what he did for a living. He threatened her, and she retaliated by going after his brother. Sherlock overlooked something and he ached to know what he missed. Something about her tipped off his subconscious when he first saw her, immediately not wanting to trust her. What was it? His mind was too foggy, thoughts jumbling together as his consciousness began to drift.

The last thing he saw was the woman's hazel eyes on his before disappearing downstairs, golden brown locks sweeping behind her. Only distantly did he hear Mrs. Hudson's cries.

"…Sherlock…!"