Heyo, people. Usually, I do fanfic for other fandom, but I decided to try a Sherlock fanfic since I was in the mood and...ahem, Moffat likes to keep us waiting till 2013...UGH, MOFFAT!

Anyways. As I watched (and thoroughly enjoyed) Sherlock, I noticed a lot of story points left untouched or inconspicuous (not that Moffat and the team are ignorant) and began to ask questions like 'So Moriarty had been preparing for Sherlock's suicide since the beginning of the series?' (For this theory, a close-up on 'Richard Brooke's' resume shows that the photograph was taken on 2010. John doesn't see the resume until around June 2011 according to lyrical sky's Sherlock timeline.) Plus, I haven't found (as far as I know) any back stories in Sherlock fandom. Thus, this story was born. Some things of the original plot are better left as is, but I want to address some matters of the series' story.

As a Sherlock fan, I will do my best to be faithful to the main plot and timeline. But the most difficult challenge in approaching this story is the timeline. One, it's complicated, and two, it's faulty and inconsistent. I'm serious; check out lyrical sky's outline. (The author's done the best to make it accurate as possible using the show's dates displayed on screen, mentioned by characters, and used on the blogs.)

So I hope you enjoy this fanfic...Okay, I'll shut up now so you can read already.

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock. Amazing writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss do. I'm just playing with the story and its characters. Original characters are mine.

Author's Note: DI Dimmock was never given a first name (correct me if I'm wrong) so I gave him one. Plus, I made him younger and nicer. ;) While in "The Blind Banker", he made the impression that he was a sour character, I was intrigued by him and decided to use him since he doesn't have much background.

Prologue

January 25, 2011

The CIA agent had yet to make a routine call to report, and he was growing nervous. He sighed as he glanced at his watch again. 8:36 PM. It was almost an hour past the appointed time, and here he was getting edgy. More than he should be letting on.

No, he 'minor' British government official Mycroft Holmes had a right to be anxious. This was an operation that he, the undercover agent, or anyone else involved, could not afford to ruin because this operation would affect-no, impact the whole lot. Make one blunder, and everything both the British and US governments had planned for months would be a lost effort to weed him out.

Even the SIS agent he sent to keep an eye on the agent hadn't reported anything himself either. Anthea would've informed him. But of course, you couldn't depend on your own spies, Mycroft thought spitefully.

In silent frustration, he curled his right hand into a fist as he paced in the Holmes estate living room, the firelight dancing on the walls and him.

When Great Britain requested aid from her ally, America replied by sending a small group of seven CIA agents. The best of the best, they claimed. Five men and two women.

And of all the bloody things, why did the Americans have to send two female CIA undercover agents to do their side of the work? Yes, they were declared to be paramount for such a delicate task, two of the élite according to the provided information files that were lying on the nearby dining table.

As if, he had inwardly rolled his eyes when he first read the papers.

Tonight, one of the two female agents was working for Mycroft, promising to report in as soon as her mission was complete. She had yet to call in, and he knew that she was too diligent to be late.

One tedious conversation with her may have erased some doubt (and he had to give her some credit for having brains), but one could never be sure. No, he knew this certain agent wasn't careless. She was very meticulous when it came to details and maybe a little too eager about missions than he would've liked. After all, she was only in her early twenties, a fact that made him skeptical of her talent.

But after sending her on many successful missions, Mycroft realized that she had truly lived up to her name. No wonder the Americans took pride in her.

So there was possibly no way Moriarty or any of his cronies got a hold of the agent. She was too cautious for that. There was no way unless…

When he heard the text alert and pulled out his phone to read the message, his fears were confirmed. Operation Mastermind had made one error –its first and its last- and his whole world took a downward spiral from there.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Closing the door behind her with her right foot and balancing grocery bags in her arms, transfer and part-time student Robyn Lawrence flipped the light switch and groaned, assessing the state of the apartment. The jungle-of-a-mess-apartment.

Even with attempts to keep her side of the shared abode clean, her best friend's messy habits (contradictory to the conscientious behavior at work) had rubbed off on Robyn. Sometimes, she swore that she would beat some sense into her roommate's brain but never followed through with her decision.

After she set the grocery bags on the kitchen countertop, she opened one of the cabinets to pour herself a glass of water. On the refrigerator, Robyn found a sticky note with her friend's writing.

'At bookstore. Will be home later,' it read.

She checked the clock above the sink's window. 8:36 PM. Said best friend had gone out to run an 'errand' for her 'employer editor' meaning she wouldn't be finished till past 9. "Might as well conjure up something for her," she told herself.

Her roommate occasionally skipped meals out of stress or anxiety, and Robyn knew that this particular 'errand' would drain her instantly. At the same time, Robyn worried for her best friend. Not just for her health but also her safety. But who was she kidding? The bookstore jobs and college studies were just cover-ups; the danger was what she and Robyn really did: spying on a criminal. And not just any criminal for that matter.

She put the groceries in the proper places before finishing the last of the water in one gulp, listening to the silence while her thoughts dwelt on the past year. From the moment they and a small group of five others had received their assignment, their lives changed. Other than moving from Walden, New York to London, England, every day and every movement was crucial to the originally British operation. Until they recently learned of the criminal branches in the US connected to the ones in the UK. Then surveillance intensified, making the American group with the help of a couple SIS agents work double time.

And that didn't lessen homework and projects at college. True, Robyn and her best friend were studying what they enjoyed (English), but the studies only added to their burden.

As soon as she remembered the literature essay due for the next day, her cell phone went off in her purse. Robyn frowned. Maybe it was her boyfriend; but his shift was nearly over by now, and he wouldn't call for casual conversation. He liked face-to-face discussions. She thought of her best friend again but reminded herself that she was working as well. Then her friend's boyfriend (her roommate wouldn't admit that) came to mind, but he was working as well.

Really, anyone that called her rarely did so to have a nice chat.

She fished out her phone from her purse, pressed the answer button, and raised it to her ear. "Hello?"

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Detective Inspector Timothy Dimmock wearily ran a hand through his hair and then rubbed his eyes. And it was only 8:36 PM on his watch. He was working overtime tonight but making no progress. Neither was DI Lestrade (the main investigator of the poison suicide cases) who had asked the younger man for help.

Thanks to his new girlfriend and her best friend's 'assistance,' Timothy had been promoted to a detective inspector in Scotland Yard, after having first met the two at a police conference about a scandal. He wondered how the young women discovered the evidence (papers proving the suspect as the culprit) for the last major case (he never got any straight answer when he asked), yet he never questioned their means of 'help.' After that, they left him to his work to avoid getting into trouble with police procedures but still kept in constant contact.

And they were Americans to top it all off, studying for an English major. Of all the places to find a university, they chose to come to England. Timothy just decided that it was preference and nothing else.

The office was half full, some working the night shift and others overtime like him. Phones rang, copiers hummed, voices echoed the room, shoes padded along the stiff carpet, and fluorescent lamps in the ceiling cast a pale light.

Puffing out his cheeks and sighing through his teeth, he leaned back in his black office chair and sent a death glare at his desk with his laptop running and the paperwork heaping next to it. Not that he hated his recent promotion. Just the stupid paperwork.

Paperwork on two suicide cases. Suicides didn't get much attention, but these two did because both victims were in nearly identical situations. Both had no obvious reason to take their own lives, both self-administered the same poison, and both died in random locations. The first: a well-paid business man discovered in an empty but new office building. And the second: a well-going teenage boy found in a school gymnasium.

Whether suspicious or not, a suicide was a suicide. End of story. Until Lestrade decided to take the two suicide cases. And when Timothy even admitted the deaths strange, welcome overtime shift. He just had to be dragged into this pointless investigation, didn't he?

An officer came barreling into the large office area, making his way to Timothy's desk. "Sir, we have an incident at Aldersgate Street."

He glanced up at the man with tired eyes. "And?"

"I think it'll interest you greatly."

The night just seemed to grow longer.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

CIA Undercover Agent Jason Colles silently stared at the coffee cup in his hand as he sat at a table in the corner next to the Criterion café entrance. His shift at the café was over, but he didn't bother to return to his apartment and had ordered a latte now too cold to enjoy. Next to his drink, chocolate-glazed biscotti on a paper plate were left untouched.

He didn't believe in superstition, but he couldn't get rid of the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. A very bad feeling. And it had to do with her.

Not that he thought of her romantically. Man, they butted heads during field work, sometimes even getting at each other's throats (one time, literally with Robyn trying to get into the middle.) Everyone in the traveling CIA group teased that she and Jason were denying their love for each other and in the beginning of the British operation, he wondered if she was really denying that she liked him as he grew to admire her. But she soon made it obvious that she wasn't even interested in a relationship.

A few months ago, they had settled the fact that their relationship was much like that of a brother and sister's, and Jason was pleased with that; it had cleared up his uncertain feelings about her and hers about him. Now that she was actually dating (a British detective inspector too) after much argument between her and the rest of the group, she was trying to get him to notice Robyn for a change which was amusing to him.

Her. That was all he could think of. Why did he have the feeling that something was wrong? He wanted to check on her, give her a call, but his digital watch said 8:36 PM. He knew she was busy tonight until 9 so she wouldn't be able to answer right away. An urge inside him said to ring her anyways. Oh, how he wished he was wrong in doubting.

And this operation was critical both to the United States and Great Britain. As stressed by British government official Mycroft Holmes, everything relied on this certain operation: expose a certain criminal. An internationally powerful criminal. Failure to succeed would end in political and financial disaster.

"Oi, Jason!" called a voice from behind the counter.

His neck craned to the speaker. It was Peter.

"You all right, man? You're looking a little pale."

"N-no, I'm fine. Just tired."

The college student shrugged but sent a skeptical look. "Suit yourself. And make sure you get home."

Jason waved a careless hand and turned his attention to the outside world beyond the café window. "Will do." But he just remained there, scanning the street as if hoping to spot her. Of course, she wouldn't be out there. He just couldn't stop thinking about her…

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Traffic had stopped all together. A car horn blared into her eardrums, leaving a consistent ringing in her hearing.

"Oi! Get out of the—"

Yeah, good. Very good.

What…

You just wrote 'still has trust issues.'

"Move it, you—"

You see what I mean?

A dazed Alex Traherne was standing in the middle of a street when a thousand voices violently assaulted her thoughts, a headache pounding her brain like a thousand hammers. She frowned. She'd heard these voices before...somewhere…

Okay, you've got questions.

But what on earth was she doing there? How did she get there all of a sudden? She thought she was—

The only one in the world.

She cringed and doubled over as if the volume of the voices had turned up to full blast. It hurt too much to wonder where she'd heard the voices before. What was worse was that the voices in her head and the sounds of the real world blended too well. Sometimes, she couldn't tell the difference. No, insane. She was going insane.

That was amazing.

"Watch it, love—"

Your back! Now, please!

"Get away from the—"

We can't giggle at a crime scene.

"You're blocking the road—"

Oh, I wouldn't say that.

There was too much city noise. Horns, shouts (curses too, unfortunately), and car engines amplified the headache, and she was just staggering around, a disoriented jaywalker.

You took your time.

"Lady, move it! Traffic's—"

Didn't notice I'd gone out then?

Alex tried to move to safety, but her legs felt like jelly; her body wouldn't coöperate with her brain, no matter how many times she commanded myself to budge.

That's why they think they're safe.

"What are doin' out—"

You're not serious.

"—something wrong?"

Hold on.

A large hand seized her left shoulder, and an arm wrapped around her waist. And someone -somehow- managed to drag her back to sidewalk before—

I'm not saying it again.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and another strangled groan escaped from her lips when a wave of nausea hit her followed by a sharp pain in the head. The migraine…it was getting worse…

Not much to go on.

"Make it stop," she whimpered.

You've been a while.

"Mummy, she's bleeding—"

They're giving me an ASBO!

"She's passing out! Get a hold of her—"

You remember the pattern?

She didn't remember when her knees hit the concrete. The nice cool concrete…warm hands against her icy skin…

I have high hopes for you.

"Move, people, move. Make room—"

Everyone says you're the best.

She found herself half-lying on the ground. Someone supported her from behind, and another was on her right. A woolen jacket was draped over her legs. And why did her right arm feel wet and sticky? The throbbing seemed to originate from there…

Not worth my time.

"Call 999! She's going into shock—"

Did you like it?

Blood. Lots of it seeping from a gash that ran from the tip of the shoulder down to the elbow. Whatever had caused the cut had also ripped through her orange blouse sleeve. Her arm felt like it was on fire. The sight of it sent bile to Alex's throat, and her left hand flew to the good part of her right shoulder. But clutching didn't stop the sensation of burning.

Top secret?

It took her a minute later to realize that she was hyperventilating, sobbing and gasping for air. Even with adrenaline pumping her systems, she couldn't think straight.

It's a warning.

"Come on, stay with us—"

Why are you doing this?

"Who did this to you—"

What d'you mean?

All Alex could comprehend was that the world was disorienting. Funny, this was nothing like Wonderland or some other magical (fictional) place. This didn't even compare to those dramatic 'injury' scenes on movies. This was serious. And what a sight she must've been. A senseless young woman wheezing and probably bleeding to death…

I've disappointed you.

"Stay with us, love. You're going—"

So nice to have a proper chat.

She didn't want to stay awake. She wanted to go to sleep, shut out the world and the voices and let herself collapse into nothingness.

You've got the rest of your life.

It must've been ages until proper help arrived at last, but the wailing sirens, barking policemen, and robotic-sounding paramedics added to the migraine.

Oh, apparently yes.

"Back up, back up. Come on now—"

I had bad days.

"We're here, miss. Are you—"

Does that make me special?

Leave me alone, she tried to say, but…

I know when it's in my hands.

She'd become numb. The pain was gone, Alex noticed, but she no longer could move her lips or respond in any way as tentative but expert hands handled her. It was as if all sense of touch had left her.

What are you talking about?

"We're losing her—"

You're right.

"Blood pressure's dropping—"

Sorry about dinner.

"Get her in the—"

Look at me.

She thought they were lifting her into the ambulance. Someone had placed a sort of bandage on her arm. Lights were glaring from above, and faces were hovering over hers. Alex felt helpless; she hated feeling helpless like this. She never thought she would find herself in the back of an ambulance.

Get me some.

"—family members, friends—"

But I know what I saw.

"Condition's—"

I don't do that.

"…—fusion."

You're being funny now.

Then it was the hearing. Mixed reactions of horror, annoyance, and confusion that bubbled from witnessing crowds were silenced. Noises of the city dimmed to nothing. Lips moved but emanated no sound. But she could still hear the voices in her head.

Tell me what you're seeing.

She just wanted to escape this misery she was in.

They're coming back.

She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep.

You look sad.

She just wanted to rest.

You know what my point is.

That was all she wanted.

I'm sorry.

Silence.

Alone protects me.

Blissful silence.

No. Friends protect people.

Blood loss and exhaustion eventually took its toll on her. Black dots danced in her vision, leading her into a dream of oblivion, and she knew no more.

Just stop it. Stop this…

And the voices stopped all together. Finally.

Oooh, nooo! What happened to her? What's Mycroft gonna do now? Where's Moriarty and Sherlock in this? What's next? Till next time...