Imposter
"Look, we know you did it, so there's no point denying it," Marcus Bell said sternly across the interrogation table. "You wanna tell us why you killed two people?"
The woman sat stubbornly still and quiet across from him, her black hair framing a pale face with cold eyes.
"Let's try this," Bell continued in the same professional tone. "We have your DNA as a match to the DNA found at both crime scenes, but it's not on record. You wanna tell us your real name?"
"I told you," the woman said slowly and flatly. "My name is Allison Jones."
"No it's not because Allison Jones died over a year ago in London!" Bell yelled.
"That's who I am," the woman repeated. "You must have the wrong information."
"Right…Scotland Yard put the wrong name down and sent us the wrong file," Bell said sarcastically.
"I have nothing else to say to you people," the woman spat before falling into emotionless silence again.
"Well, we'll just see about that when our consultant gets here…" Bell muttered before slamming the door of the interrogation room behind him. "Where is Holmes?" he demanded through gritted teeth.
"He's on his way up now," Gregson replied. "I sure hope he can get more out of this one."
"We've got enough proof to put her away if we only knew who she is," Bell added with a glance over his shoulder at the woman in the room.
Within moments, the quick, sharp sounds of Holmes' footsteps could be heard approaching the interrogation room. "You said on the phone that you have our suspect?" Sherlock questioned.
"Yeah we got her," Gregson sighed. "Now if we can figure out who she is."
"Meaning?" Sherlock asked sharply.
"Meaning she keeps giving a name of a dead person," Bell replied.
"Well that's certainly different," Sherlock observed with a tone of near amusement. "What name is she giving you?"
"Allison Jones," Bell replied with a sigh. "According to Scotland Yard, she was murdered over a year ago in London. They never found the body, but…"
"I am well acquainted with the case, Detective," Sherlock snapped, his face falling to the stern expression that was only used to mask deep, emotional pain. "May I?" he asked with a pointed glance at Gregson.
"Be my guest," Gregson replied. "Do what you can."
Sherlock nodded once before moving into the interrogation room and pulling the door closed behind him.
"What's going on?" Joan asked as she finally came around the corner.
"Our suspect won't tell us her real name," Bell explained. "She's almost as tough as your partner."
"That's a little scary," Joan admitted as she moved to watch through the glass.
Inside the interrogation room, everything was deadly silent. Sherlock stood stock still with barely a breath of room between his back and the heavy door to the rest of the station. The dark haired woman sat straight backed and stiff against the hard, metal chair as she stared directly at her handcuffs glistening against the desk. The air was tense enough to be cut with a knife as each waited for the other to speak. Finally, it was the woman who broke the silence.
"You must be the 'consultant' the detective was talking about," she said without looking at him. "So, are you going to grill me or just stand there? It's not like I can't tell you're staring at me."
Sherlock took several deep breaths in through his nose that could easily be heard through the glass before speaking. "Who are you?" he finally demanded in a voice that left no room for silence.
The woman sighed exasperatedly. "As I have been telling the detective all day, my name is Allison Jones."
"You're lying," Sherlock replied, gritting his teeth to prevent his anger from bursting forth. "Allison Jones is dead!"
The woman finally looked up at him, and her eyes finally showed some sense of emotion. "Oh my…of course, I should have known you'd be here."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, when I couldn't find you in London, I should have known you'd come here…my old home," she replied with a hint of fondness.
Sherlock was having a very difficult time keeping his anger in now. "You are not Allison Jones because the real Allison Jones would not have murdered two innocent people for no apparent reason!" He was shouting now, his face beet red in utter fury.
The woman laughed coldly. "We haven't seen each other in over a year, dear Sherlock, so how would you know who I am anymore?"
Sherlock continued to breathe deeply as he stared at the woman in front of him. "How are you not dead?" he challenged.
The woman laughed again. "Oh really, now. They didn't want me dead, just out of the way so you could continue your fall. I see that it worked quite well," she smirked. "You are nowhere near the man you were the last time we were together. Do you remember that, Sherlock? The last time we were…together?"
To a normal eye, Sherlock's face betrayed nothing, but his eyes flashed momentarily in recognition. He stared at her intently for a moment before speaking again. "Where have you been all this time?"
"Does it really matter now?" the woman countered.
Sherlock held her gaze and took a deep breath. "Nine?" he questioned.
The woman stared at him in utter confusion. "I'm sorry?" she stuttered.
"Nine?" he asked again, his face betraying nothing.
"Sherlock, why are you saying random numbers?" she laughed. "What does this have to do with anything?"
Without another word, Sherlock turned and left the interrogation room. He moved quickly to meet the detectives and his partner who were all just emerging from the watching room.
"What was all of that?" Gregson asked.
"That woman is not Allison Jones," Sherlock said simply. "You have my solemn word, Captain."
"Ok…so who is she?" Bell asked.
"Oh I have no idea," Sherlock replied. "However, I'm quite certain that the NYPD can handle solving that mystery without me, yes? Good." He hurried off towards the elevator without another word.
Joan was left, as usual, to try and make a polite exit for herself and her partner even though the two officers were more than used to Holmes' strange behavior by now.
"I'll see if I can figure out what's wrong with him," Joan promised.
"Good luck," Gregson muttered.
Joan's only reply was a wry smile as she followed her companion to the exit. Unsurprisingly, he was standing on the pavement – well, she supposed rocking was a better description – obviously waiting for a taxi. Joan had worked with him long enough to know not to say anything about what had happened inside until they were safely behind the walls of the Brownstone, but it did not seem as though Sherlock was in the mood to let her…
"Out with it Watson!" he demanded as soon as she had shut the front door. "You're body language in the cab practically screamed holding back a question, and I'd rather not spend all night waiting for you to ask."
Joan sighed. "What was all that about back at the precinct?" she asked cautiously. She had barely enough time to compare dealing with Sherlock to dealing with a baby animal; the slightest scare would send him into hiding for hours, days, or even weeks.
"I interrogated a suspect and found her to be guilt of the crime but lying about her identity," Sherlock replied sharply. "I should think that I no longer have to explain why to you."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it," Joan countered, still keeping her calm tone intact but refusing to back down.
Sherlock said nothing but continued to stare at her with obvious signs of his walls moving into place.
"Who is Allison Jones, how do you know her, and why were you so angry with the suspect?" Joan asked, knowing that he would either answer her questions or disappear.
He breathed deeply and turned away from her for a moment. "I was angry because she was pretending to be someone she was not…it would not do for a monster such as that to besmirch the good name of an innocent woman."
"I understand that," Joan replied honestly, taking a step forward. "But you seemed…I don't know…hurt almost. I haven't seen that look on your face since Irene."
Sherlock stiffened and turned back to face her with a pained expression mixed with a valiant effort to keep his pain hidden. "Watson…please believe me when I say that I trust you implicitly. I would put my life in your hands without a second thought, and I have not been able to say that to many people in my life. I am certain you recall my reluctance to speak of Irene and the pain she caused in my life. I am afraid that I cannot answer your questions because of a worse pain that they would cause me. Please do me the favor of not asking them again. This is one thing that must remain unsaid."
Joan stared with a slightly open mouth as Sherlock left the kitchen without another word. Never before had he admitted so openly that a subject was painful to him, and never had he admitted that it was his choice to keep a secret and not her fault. It was obvious that whatever was going on with him cut deeper than even the ordeal with Irene turned Moriarty.
Despite her curiosity surrounding the issue, Joan knew it was pointless to press Sherlock when he made his mind up, and somehow…she couldn't even bring herself to want to press him on this topic. Something about the way he had looked both at the precinct and again just now made her feel incredible pity for him No, she would not press for the answers she wanted, and she knew she would not even dare to go looking for them on her own. This time, she mused, she might just have to move on and leave a mystery behind.
Several weeks later, Sherlock was growing bored again as no new cases had come from Gregson that offered them more than a few hours' work at most. Joan was beginning to fear for the safety of the Brownstone as every day Sherlock's experiments grew more and more dangerous to the point of almost setting fire to his bedroom and almost melting the kitchen with acid. As he once again began to pace up and down the room, occasionally kicking his soccer ball against the wall, Joan lost her patience.
"Ok!" she cried, slamming the book she had been reading closed. "I get it that you're bored and want another case, I really do. But do you have to make it your personal goal to destroy the house because of it?"
"I believe we are long past the point of me having to apologize for my habits," Sherlock replied without ceasing his pacing.
"I'm not asking you to apologize," Joan argued through gritted teeth as she attempted to seize the ball before it could collide with the wall again. "I'm just asking you to cut it out!"
Sherlock trapped the ball and opened his mouth to reply when, mercifully, the doorbell rang.
"Thank God!" Joan groaned as Sherlock hurried to answer it.
"No you are not coming in here!" she heard Sherlock yell at whomever was at the door. "I am not letting you within five feet of Watson again."
"Mycroft…" Joan sighed as she rose from the couch and shuffled to the door.
It was indeed Mycroft standing on their doorstep, but it did not appear as though he was there under his usual pretenses. His face was drawn and worried as he looked only at his brother.
"I promise you that I am not here to see Joan, although it is a lovely byproduct," he added with a nod to her. "I would not even be here, but circumstances have forced my hand."
"What circumstances?" Sherlock sneered.
Mycroft hesitated.
"Would you like to come in?" Joan asked with the dual motive of being polite and hoping it would help Mycroft get straight to the point to reduce the risk of Sherlock losing his temper too quickly.
"No thank you, Joan," he replied. "I'm afraid I cannot leave…certain things…in my car for too long."
Both Sherlock and Joan caught the obvious hesitation on the words "certain things", but neither said anything for the moment.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded again.
"I was cleaning out 221B the other day and taking some of my things to storage," Mycroft explained. "I had just finished packing a box and was bringing it outside to my car when I noticed something odd. I had to come to you right away, so I took the next plane here."
"What on Earth could be so important?" Sherlock asked skeptically.
"Come with me," Mycroft instructed his brother and moved down the stairs toward the car parked at the bottom. "I can't manage alone," he added when his brother did not immediately move to follow.
Sherlock sighed and scowled but followed Mycroft down the stairs and towards the car. "Now what is it?" he demanded.
"I warn you, Sherlock…this may be something of a shock to you…I know it was to me. I can still hardly believe it, to tell you the truth. She was just there – collapsed on the doorstep of 221B, muttering and whispering your name over and over again like it was the only word she knew. I can't imagine what's happened to her, and I'm not entirely certain I want to."
"'Her'?" Sherlock asked, now looking genuinely confused. "'She'?"
Mycroft nodded and opened the passenger side back door. Sitting there on the seat looking half starved, half crazed, and completely terrified was a woman not more than a few years younger than Sherlock.
Sherlock felt his throat close and his breathing speed up as the woman's eyes frantically rose to meet his own.
"Sh-Sherlock?" she gasped, her tone full of fear and exhaustion.
"It can't be…" Sherlock finally forced out.
"F-five…" she breathed, looking him dead in the eye.
"Allison…?" Sherlock gasped.
She nodded shakily before slumping against the back of the seat in a dead faint.
Well, this is the beginning of my first Elementary story! I've been sitting on this story since midway through season 1, and I finally decided it was time to deal with it and write it down. I hope you all don't think it's too predictable or anything like that…I'll try to keep it from becoming that. Please let me know what you think of it – staying on character is very important for me especially with Sherlock. His mannerisms are tough to write, but I did my best. Let me know your thoughts, and I'll work on having chapter 2 up soon! Thank you!
