Don't fuck this up.
Sophie Walters frowned, and slipped her phone back into her pocket. The matte black door to 221B Baker Street stood in front of her. She gave a short knock and drew her hand back into the warmth of her coat pocket.
A dulled yell sounded from inside – Mrs Hudsooon! – and an elderly lady answered the door, flustered.
"Ah, dear," the lady crooned, "you must be here for the secretary job."
"I am, yeah."
Mrs. Hudson gave a sweet smile and ushered her into the warm hallway. A narrow set of stairs lay directly in front, and Mrs. Hudson gently pushed her up.
Beyond the wide open door leading to the flat was a living room, complete with ratty armchairs, coffee tables, and massive cardboard boxes littering the floor.
A middle-aged man in a blue plaid shirt and jeans, leaning heavily on a crutch, hobbled over to greet her.
"Mr. Holmes?"
He barked out a short laugh. "I should hope not. He's just taking his sweet time. Doctor John Watson," he held out his free hand to shake.
Soph took it and smiled warmly. "I didn't realize Mr. Holmes was…"
He took the hint, blinking awkwardly. "Why does every- No, he's not. Well, I don't know that he's not, but I know that I'm not, and, uh…" He trailed off and Soph pushed down the disappointment, gingerly taking a seat on a worn, red armchair with a Union Jack pillow.
He sighed, collapsing into a chair of his own, finally glancing up as a tall, dark-haired gentleman bustled into the room.
"Mr. Holmes? I'm Sophie Walters, here for the job listing about an assistant."
He furrowed his brows and looked her over silently. His hair sat in heavy curls around his forehead, and his highly angular face was tense in focus.
As soon as it came, the look cleared and he nodded at her. "Please sit."
She blinked, looking down at the armchair she was currently sitting in. She shuffled a little, and he moved on.
"I need someone who can deal with all the boring, ordinary stuff that comes with solving cases. I am a consulting detective, you see, and while I thrive in the detective area, the administration of consulting is a waste of my time. You'll be taking down cases – turning down the boring ones, of course – and communicating with Scotland Yard once I ultimately solve them.
"You're a detective?" Her…boss had failed to mention this, only that he was a highly intelligent individual. "So, you find clues and stuff?"
He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I find clues, and stuff," he added derisively. "For example," he ignored the huff that came from Watson, "I knew from the moment you stepped in here that you recently graduated university, though clearly not with the grades you wanted. You have a large circle of friends, but you never spend time with them. You're a pianist, but not for a living. You have no job currently, and evidently nowhere to stay, as you've been staying over at your boyfriend's place the past few nights, borrowing his toiletries and not sleeping well. Although he is clearly gay, judging by the strawberry shower gel he keeps at his flat."
John shook his head in embarrassment, but a grin tugged its way onto Sophie's face. "She is gay," she admitted, trying in vain to push away the smile as the man stared at her, furrowing his brow. "You got the rest all spot on, Mr. Holmes, but it's my girlfriend that's gay, not my boyfriend."
Sherlock huffed, then stared at her. "Don't you want to know how I knew all these things? How I deduced them?"
She considered. "Do I need to know to do the job?"
He blinked at her, sniffed, and deftly moved on. "You're hired." A pause. "I'll be in contact. Mrs. Hudson will show you out."
Sensing the conversation was over, she gave a grateful smile, and walked out.
Soph took a steadying breath before knocking on the polished black door. Through the frosted pane she could see a figure rushing down the stairs.
Kate answered the door and ushered Sophie in, surreptitiously checking the street for anyone who might have followed her. Satisfied, she took Sophie's coat and led her into Irene's office.
Irene was in a white suit and skirt, dark red lipstick outlining the devious grin on her face.
"Employed, are we?"
"He does hate being proved wrong, doesn't he?" Sophie would've sat, only she hadn't received the offer. Standing awkwardly in front of the desk, keeping her eyes down, she cleared her throat. "Look, he's clearly a genius, and I can't imagine three years of acting school will be…"
She trailed off, confused. Irene had lost the colour in her cheeks and the spark in her eyes. Her gaze was focused behind Soph, as a floorboard creaked in the doorway.
"It's adorable that you think you have a choice," an Irish drawl sounded behind her.
She fell silent, eyes on the floor. The creaks were closer now, a slow pace as he moved up behind her. His breath was hot on her neck.
"Daddy will be very angry if you don't comply. No, not angry, just…disappointed," he finished, his voice a song in her ear. She could see him out the corner of her eye now. Irene still hadn't said a word since he'd come in.
"I," she coughed out the shakiness in her voice, "I swear I won't let you down, sir."
"I should hope not."
Irene met eyes with him and nodded slightly. "Sophie, you go wait in the playroom now. I'll be with you shortly."
"Yes, ma'am."
Refusing to pull her gaze from the floor, Soph turned away from the presence beside her and hurried out the door and down the hall.
She could hear their voices, mere murmurs of sound rather than words, and finally let herself shiver.
It wasn't the first time she had seen Moriarty, but it certainly was the first time speaking to him. It was like having a polite conversation with a crocodile, knowing he'll go in for the kill whenever he feels like it.
As she slipped off her clothing and folded it into a pile in the conveniently placed wicker basket, she cursed Sherlock Holmes.
Of course he had no idea what was coming to him, but he must've done something awful to demand the wrath of one James Moriarty.
Sherlock had recently moved to 221B Baker Street (by recently, he said, he meant the day of the interview) and it was clear to see by the sheer volume of stuff lying around. Dr. Watson was humming and hawing about it, but he was a nice enough fellow, and between the two of them they had cleared enough space to sit on some threadbare armchairs and have a cup of tea.
Sherlock had been rushing about for the past hour or so, beakers full of strange liquids and solutions lining the kitchen bench, some of them smoking gently.
"Any, ah, interesting cases yet?"
She shrugged at John. "I still can't quite work out what exactly he means by 'interesting'. I think it must be somewhere between complicated and grisly. I think he's a bit annoyed that rather than murder, everyone's been killing themselves nowadays. You hear about that?"
He nodded. "Such a strange world, three people offing themselves in the exact same way for no reason at all. A shame, re-"
"Four." Sherlock was standing at the window which looked out onto the street. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time."
An unfamiliar man came bounding up the steps. "Lauriston Gardens!"
"What's different about this one?"
"You know how they don't leave a note? This one did. Will you come?"
Sherlock considered. "Who's on forensics?"
"Anderson."
He scoffed. "Anderson won't work with me. I'll bring my assistant." He gestured lazily to Soph, who awkwardly waved. "Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."
The man sighed gratefully, and hurried back down the stairs.
The three of them waited expectantly, and when the door clicked downstairs, Sherlock grinned and pumped his fists in excitement.
John simply sat in shock, while Soph tried to ignore him and started putting on her coat.
As the unlikely pair bundled up in winter woollies, Sherlock turned and stared at John. "Get Mrs. Hudson to make you a cup of tea or something. Don't wait up," and with that, he rushed out the door.
Soph was just about to follow when he abruptly turned back to John. "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."
"Yes."
"Any good?"
John stood and puffed up his chest. "Very good."
Sherlock began monologuing at John. Sophie was very aware of time, so she left them to it and broke out onto the street to hail a taxi.
A glossy black car finally pulled up as Sherlock joined her, and behind him, John. The three bundled into the cab, Sherlock barked directions, and they were on their way.
Sherlock, oblivious to the questioning gazes, had his face buried in his phone. Soph and John shared a bemused look and she shrugged.
John cleared his throat expectantly, and Sherlock looked up. "You've got questions," he stated.
John grinned, and began interrogating the consulting detective about what he did and how. Since none of this was news to her, Soph quietly pulled out her phone, angling it away from the two men squeezed in to the left of her.
Lauriston Gardens. Apparently there's a note.
It was only a few moments before a little bubble popped up in reply.
Find a reason to leave before them. We'll pick you up.
She locked her phone, leaning back in her seat and gazing out the window at the rushing neon scenery. It would be easy enough to pull off, of course, but the use of 'we' concerned her. She knew what it meant.
When they arrived, both men were still yammering away.
"…and Harry's short for Harriet," John had finished, purposefully striding as fast as he could with his crutch.
Sherlock stopped in her tracks. "Harriet's your sister," he concluded, cursing himself.
Sophie grinned at him. "All the genius in that brain of yours and gender is the blind spot, huh?"
Before he could answer, John butted in. "What is it I'm supposed to be doing here?"
Sherlock dismissed him, and approached a line of plastic police tape being manned by a policewoman, who scowled when she saw the detective arrive.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was invited."
"Why?"
"I think he wants me to take a look," he drawled, lifting the tape and ushering John and Sophie under.
"Why?" the lady repeated sarcastically.
Sherlock turned and looked at her impatiently. "These are my colleagues, Doctor John Watson and Miss Sophie Walters."
She scoffed at him. "Colleagues? How did you get colleagues? Did he follow you home?" she questioned John before turning to Soph. "Remember: just say no."
Soph turned to see both men already heading into the building. She shrugged. "Bold of you to assume he'd try." She cracked a grin at the lady.
"Fair point," she conceded. "Sally Donovan."
Seeing that Sherlock and John clearly hadn't noticed her absence, she leaned in. "What's his deal, anyway?" In her experience, the best secrets came from those who hated you enough to find them.
Sally leant back against the police car. "He gets off on it," she whispered conspiratorially, "murder and shit. Goes all psycho when nobody gets killed. The more gruesome, the better for him. The forensics team have a bet running on when he'll finally snap and start offing people himself."
Soph considered this. Sally frowned at her. "Why are you even with him? If I were you, I'd run the other way and never look back. If you have the choice, you should take it."
She laughed without humor. "If I had the choice, I would. I guess I'll just have to get used to him."
Sally shrugged. "Lock your door at night if he knows where you live, that's all I'm saying."
Sophie sighed, and looked up at the house bathed in red and blue light. She gave Sally a final nod before jogging up the steps and inside.
Up the stairs, Sherlock, John and the man from before were crowded around a body. Only two of the men wore blue suits. The body was a lady, dressed head-to-toe in pink. The men looked up on her arrival.
She remembered the text she had received, and blinked slowly at the body, wobbling unsteadily on her feet and willing her face to go pale.
"I'll just…" she keeled over slightly and took a shuddering breath. "I think I'll just wait outside…"
Sherlock seemed disappointed that she hadn't had a more lively reaction to the apparent suicide scene in front of her. "Just go home. I have Doctor Watson to assist me now," with that, he turned her back to her and continued lecturing the grey-haired man about weather conditions and suitcases.
Soph kept up the charade for as long as it took to get onto the street. As she aimlessly walked down back the way they had come in the taxi cab, a dark car with tinted windows pulled up next to her.
She got in without hesitation, but with reluctance. She knew who it was, only…
She had never seen this woman before. The lady was on her phone, studiously avoiding her questioning gaze.
Sophie sighed, and sat back as the car took her down winding streets and back roads, staring out the window until they came to a stop outside an abandoned warehouse.
She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. The driver, a man about twice her size and with five times the muscle mass herded her into the dusty concrete building. Inside, a tall man in a three-piece suit, leaning on an umbrella appraised her quietly.
She approached him, opting not to sit in the chair that had been left there.
"Hello, Sophie," he intoned. "You seem rather put off. Not who you were expecting, hmm?"
She choose not to answer.
He chuckled. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" A smile was upon his face but his eyes were cold and calculating.
"I'm his assistant. I was hired yesterday."
"And yet, in that short time, he's gained a roommate, and has brought you both along to solve crimes. Should I be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"
In spite of the potential danger of the situation, Soph gave a cheeky smile. "Don't hold your breath. John's not gay, and, well, I am."
He hummed, either disappointed or just unamused. She sighed. "What is this, then? So interested in Sherlock when you're clearly not his friend."
"You've met the man; how many friends do you really think he has?"
Soph thought of Donovan and the forensics team's bet.
The man continued. "I'm the closest thing Sherlock has to a friend."
"A sibling?" She guessed.
He looked taken aback, and clarified. "An enemy. At least in his mind. I'm sure if you asked him, he'd call my his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."
"Then you two are a perfect match, I suppose."
He frowned at her. The frown deepened when her phone dinged.
She paused, and pulled it out.
I don't appreciate it when you don't follow my orders. I punish people who don't follow my orders, Sophie.
She glanced at the man, who was staring at her with raised eyes. "I do hope I'm not keeping you."
She looked back down at her phone, and quickly typed a reply before pocketing it.
I'm currently occupied by Sherlock's 'arch-enemy'. Seems a certain someone will have competition.
The man cleared his throat. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"
"Unless you're willing to pay better, yes."
He pulled out a wallet. "If you do remain in the employment of Sherlock Holmes, I'd be willing to pay a considerable fee on a regular basis. In exchange for…information."
She considered it. If her superiors found out about this, she was dead. But, if she was honest, as soon as they were done with her they'd probably kill her anyway, just to keep her quiet. "Are we talking your version of a 'considerable fee', or mine?"
He wrote out a check, and handed it over with a shark's grin.
Her mouth fell open. She nodded, and calmly placed it in her pocket. "If I do this, nobody can know."
"Naturally."
She opened her mouth to reply, but her phone cut her off.
Mycroft Holmes. Looks like you've caught another big fish. We can use this.
Before she could put her phone away, it dinged again.
Good girl.
She pushed down a smile and looked up at him. "I imagine you'll be the one contacting me? You don't seem like the Facebook type."
He let out a unfeeling laugh. "You may go back to your Woman now, Sophie."
The color fell from her face. She stared at him for a couple of seconds. "Okay, Mike," she finished, turning to walk away, but not before seeing his face drop.
Do I go back to Baker Street or go to you?
Soph was all too aware of the echoing thud of her shoes, and the silence from the man who had brought her here.
Come.
She grinned, and hopped back into the black car.
Irene Adler's house was almost always warm. The one exception was when a certain guest was in. He liked to keep things cold. It made people more uncomfortable and eager to please.
Sophie had first noticed this months ago. Irene had left Sophie alone after a particularly lengthy session.
Her legs were too wobbly to properly hold up her weight, and so she had collapsed back onto the bed, covered in a plastic sheet, and taken a few minutes to calm down.
As part of Irene's business, she always left her clients ten minutes after their booking, to get their bearings. It was a necessary precaution, albeit one Soph had never really taken advantage of until now.
It was nearing the end of the ten minutes before she stood back up, walking over to the connecting bathroom.
It was always stocked with towels, baby wipes, perfumes and colognes, prepared for any refreshment needed.
Soph gingerly wiped herself down, taking care around her back and upper thighs, where she could feel angry, thin welts rising up already.
There were no clocks in the room, only an egg timer, so clients and Irene alike could tell when the appointment was up.
The time had run out.
You had to pay extra when you went overtime, and as she got dressed she wondered how the hell she would afford it.
She was already unemployed, and staying at her girlfriend's tiny flat. Her girlfriend knew about this, and didn't mind as long as she was honest with her.
After all, Molly was honest with her about the feelings she had for a colleague.
They both wanted different things sexually, and both were fine with that.
But Sophie could tell it was going too far. Every time she tried to quit, she found herself seeking out other substitutes; 'accidentally' touching the kettle after it had boiled, getting her hand caught in the car door.
There was something wrong with her, but Irene thrived off of customers that were broken.
And so she would come back.
Sophie didn't know how she would explain to Molly about this extra cost.
She had promised to find a proper job. Her savings from her job she had at university were quickly running out. Cats were expensive. Three cats were very expensive.
So it was with a sullen disposition that she put back on her clothes, and went to find Irene.
She was surprised to find that she wasn't in the living room. It bridged the gap between front door and playroom, so that she could see every client out – and make them pay any extra fees incurred during their time together.
Kate was out for the afternoon, so she couldn't leave the money with her. Soph heard voices in the office.
She had never been in there before, but she knew that if she left without paying, she wouldn't be allowed back.
So she gathered up her courage, and knocked.
Silence fell inside.
Irene cracked open the heavy wooden door just a couple inches. "You can leave, Miss Walters." Her face was tense, and not as in command as it was half an hour ago.
Sophie found her voice. "I apologize, ma'am, I'm here to pay the overtime fee. I took too long getting ready."
For a moment she thought the Woman was going to simply dismiss her, but a sing-song voice came from behind the door.
"Do come in, Miss Walters," it drawled.
For the first time since they'd met, Sophie saw a look of regret on Irene's face.
She mouthed 'sorry' and opened the door wider, ushering her in.
Sitting in the seat behind the desk, Irene's seat, was a man in an expensive suit.
He oozed danger and charm, and his glinting eyes followed her as she gingerly stepped into the room.
His mouth worked as he looked her over. "An interesting habit you have, Miss Walters, for such a young lady."
She didn't know what to say, so said nothing.
He leaned forward. "I recognize you. Sophie." She took a shuddering breath. "The Crucible, West End? Outstanding." He got up, and slowly wandered around the room, pretending to inspect the bookcases. "I've got a witch-hunt of my own, you see, that's very…important, to me." His tongue swirled around in his mouth as he turned back to her, looking her straight in the eye. "'Until an hour before the devil fell, God thought him beautiful in heaven.' I want to make another angel fall." He resumed his waltz across the room.
Irene was still standing by the door, eyes downcast.
"A Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the Irish man sang, "wasting away his beautiful mind on the side of the angels. Disappointing." He shrugged; even this action came off as threatening. "You will help me, won't you? Sophie?"
Irene's head shifted slightly, giving her a nod.
"Yes," Sophie near-whispered.
Today, after a suicide and an encounter with a second Mr. Holmes, Sophie found herself in Irene Adler's office.
It was cold.
He was happy today. He almost always enjoyed himself, but today he was positively glowing with a menacing energy.
In the explanation of events, Soph had come clean about the money, offering deferentially to send it directly to him.
Even the betrayal of trust didn't faze him. Rather, he took it as Sophie playing the game; getting on the good graces of Mycroft Holmes so that she could keep tabs on him, too.
Not that he had really explained the game at all. She didn't know why Sherlock was so interesting to him, she didn't know how she would even be of any use.
So far she had done nothing of interest, but even the small details like what Sally told her about the forensics team, and the skull on Sherlock's mantelpiece, caused him endless delight.
It was nearing midnight when Soph gently unlocked and pushed open the door to Molly's flat.
It was dead quiet inside, and as the keys jangled back into the dish on the side table, she spotted a note.
Went to bed early b/c I have to go to work early tomorrow xoxo
Smiling, she kicked off her boots at the door and padded down to their bedroom.
Inside, Molly was fast asleep, surrounded by Toby, Frankie and Lucy.
She undressed quietly, moving Toby out of the way and slipping into the bed, which had been warmed up by the combined body heat of three cats and a human.
Soph watched Molly as she shifted slightly; subconsciously gravitating towards her.
She leant in, and fell asleep with a contented smile on her face.
That morning, Sophie hitched a ride into town with her girlfriend. Molly worked in the morgues at Saint Barts, and had to go in extra early to deal with the body of Jennifer Wilson.
Though she didn't bring it up in the car, Soph knew Molly's secret yet infamous crush often visited her there. She refused to mention who, not out of distrust but embarrassment, which led Sophie to believe this lady she was crushing on might be someone she knew.
They had gone to work dos together in the past, but she couldn't really remember Molly liking anyone specific then.
As Molly got settled into her routine of doing an autopsy, Sophie secretly hoped this special lady turned up.
It made her happy to see Molly happy, and while it was best when she was the one causing it, she was glad Molly had found something that was special, just like Soph had.
The doors swung open and a familiar figure stormed in.
Without noticing Sophie leaning against the bench, he declared to Molly, "No need, Molly, no need! The case is solved!"
Molly, who had gone suspiciously quiet, stared down at the massive Y that she had just cut into the chest of the victim and sighed.
As Molly was pulling her gloves off, Sherlock turned to look around the room and did a double take.
"Sophie? What are you doing here?"
She laughed. "Can't you just deduce it anyway?"
Molly gave her a frantic glance while Sherlock was looking, shaking her head meaningfully. Surely not…?
She cleared her throat. "I was just coming to see if they had any information on file. After I went home, you never told me if you solved it or not." She stood up, gently squeezing Molly's hand out of sight and headed for the door. "Now I know you solved it, I'll just head out."
Sherlock had already turned his attention to Molly. "Why aren't you wearing that lipstick today? Now your mouth looks too small."
Sophie froze, and turned around. "What the fuck did you say?"
Sherlock looked bewildered; Molly just looked embarrassed.
"That's inappropriate workplace conduct, Sherlock," she finished lamely.
Both Sherlock and Molly were still in an awkward silence when the door swung shut behind her.
We need to talk.
Soph glanced back at the message she had sent twenty minutes ago. Irene had replied with a time, and now she was sat in Irene's living room, listening to her finish up with a client.
She exited the playroom, sitting across from Soph still dressed in her lace and leather. She raised an eyebrow expectantly.
"I want out."
"You know that's not an option."
"Well, I need to find a way to make it an option, then."
Irene stared at her. "What's got you so riled up."
Soph shook her head and stared at the perfectly polished floorboards. "Sherlock is…no longer just a stranger. Someone I care about cares about him, and I can no longer be a part of his destruction."
Irene nodded in thought. "He won't change his mind, and he won't let you go."
"I'll run away; change my name."
"He'll find you."
"I'll kill him."
Irene barked out a laugh that froze in her throat. Her face went pale.
"How fascinating," how did he get so close behind her? "You really think you have a chance, don't you?"
Sophie ignored the trembling of the muscles in her stomach and held her spine up straight. "How about I kill him, then." It went deadly quiet. "You won't have anything to play with."
"I'd have you killed for that."
"You would have me killed anyway."
The springs in the couch creaked as he sat down on the edge, staring directly into her eyes. She forced herself to meet his gaze defiantly.
"I'd have you skinned."
Her heart began to tremor, and all of a sudden the dark thunder in his expression cleared. He tilted his head, smiling.
"Molly Hooper is an interesting girl, isn't she?"
She jerked her head.
He chuckled under his breath. "And tall, dark and handsome does seem to be her taste in men." He leant back, casually gesturing at himself. "St. Barts has an opening in the IT department that I might just apply for."
She shook her head slowly, trying to will away the pressure behind her eyes.
He put his hand softly on her shoulder, making her flinch, and smiled at her. "You have Irene. I think it's selfish of you not to let your little girlfriend have someone too." He shrugged. "My team informs me you two haven't really been doing a whole lot in that flat of yours."
Before she could think of the futility of her actions, Soph bolted.
A strong, brutal grip around her wrist tugged her back onto the couch.
His other hand wrapped around her chin, and his face came within a few centimeters of hers. "Don't you think for a second," he hissed, all pretense of humor gone, "that you'll survive this little ordeal. If you shut up and take it, your girlfriend might just live to see another day."
He let go, pushing her away from him. Her hand throbbed and she had bit down on her tongue, but she stayed quiet, avoiding his gaze.
He got up casually, and brushed his suit, adjusting the sleeves. "I hope we're on the same page, Miss Walters," he drawled, and let himself in to Irene's office, gently closing the door behind him with a click.
.
I said, if you don't review, your mom's a hoe!
Hi everyone! Thank you for reading this far, I know I'm 8 years late, but I hope you'll still find this an enjoyable read!
I'm definitely fucking around with the characters (specifically their relationships with our OC), but I will be keeping pretty in line with the canon plot.
There was a serious lack of lesbians on the show, and with the power invested in me I've chosen to change that. It's also much more fun to write characters with poor morals, than goody-two-shoes.
Let me know what you think!
I'm still debating skipping out the Blind Banker, because that is the low point of the whole show for me personally, but I might find a way to write it that is interesting to read.
I'm not sure, also, how explicit to go. Obviously Sophie likes to get it on, but I'm thinking maybe the implications are enough to serve the story.