"Ms. Y/L/N?" your secretary calls from your doorway, breaking your concentration. You blink several times trying to focus your eyes, which had been straining on the computer screen.
"Yes, Janet?" you ask, irritated at the interruption yet grateful for an excuse to take a break.
"There are two men here to see you," she explains, sounding slightly anxious. "They are… inquiring about Dr. Andrews."
"Police detectives?" You ask, leaning back in your plush leather chair and stretching the kinks from your neck. You'd already talked to so many officials about Dr. Andrews, but you knew that this investigation was far from over.
"No, not exactly," Janet says, wringing her hands.
"Not exactly?" you question, a cold, hard pit forming in your stomach.
"They say they are consultants, working with the police," she explained. There is a Dr. Watson and a Mr. --"
"Holmes?" you bite out, already knowing the answer.
"Yes, how did you --"
"Nevermind, tell them I will be with them in a moment," you say, reaching for your makeup bag that you kept in your briefcase. As Janet leaves, you pull out your mirror and appraise your appearance. A little powder, blush and some pale lipstick leave you looking refreshed. You stand and pull on your blazer, looking smart in a skirt suit set and pumps. With a deep breath, you steel yourself. You knew this day would come sooner or later and it would be best to get it over with.
You pull open your door and stride down the short hallway, heels clicking on the tiled floor as you pass Janet's desk and enter the small waiting area.
You see him and he sees you and your heart stops beating altogether. He hasn't changed a bit in 7 years. Tall, lean muscles hidden under a long coat, dark wavy curls, sculpted cheekbones and perfect lips. He stands and moves towards you, his long legs closing the distance quicker than you would have liked. You struggle to match his expression, cool, polite, unphased and completely unreadable.
"Y/N," he says, his hand extended out to you. His deep, smooth baritone voice sends a tingle right down your spine.
"Mr. Holmes," you say, giving him a quick, curt handshake before turning to his associate.
"Dr. Watson, I presume," you say, offering the chap a smile. "I am F/N L/N, Lead Analyst for the MODs Weaponry Development Division."
"John Watson, yes. Lovely to meet you," he says with a charming smile.
"What brings you two in today?" you ask, looking only at John.
"We are working with Detective Inspector Lestrade," he explains, "On the disappearance of Dr. Andrews."
"I've already told Lestrade everything I know," you explain, "Several times. As well as the Ministry's internal affairs department." You look directly at Sherlock. "I am not sure what more I can tell you."
"Just a few minutes Y/N," Sherlock says, his tone clipped and short. "Do you mind?" You do mind, but you don't want to cause a scene in the reception area.
"This way then," you say, turning and heading back towards your office. For some reason, it annoys you that he kept saying your name. It shouldn't have, it was your name and you weren't sure what else you'd have him do, but hearing it roll off his tongue, the way it used to, was making your blood boil.
You enter your office and round your desk, gesturing for the two to sit in the chairs opposite you. They settle in, as do you, folding your hands neatly on your blotter and waiting.
"Dr. Andrews worked for you," Sherlock states. You nod. "On what exactly?"
"Yeah, I can't really say," you reply, trying to sound apologetic and failing.
"Bioweaponry?" Sherlock asks. You shrug and Sherlock remains unphased.
"Do you recall where he went on his last assignment?" he questions.
"Yes," you reply simply. Finally, this elicits a frustrated sigh from the dark haired detective.
"Where then?" he asks, leaning forward.
"Can't say," you reply, enjoying this far more than you thought you would.
"I can get a warrant," he says, nonchalantly.
"Oh don't threaten me Sherlock," you laugh, finally getting to say his name. "I'm an upper level analyst at the MOD. Who the hell are you?"
"Look," Dr. Watson says, leaning in between the two of you. "We have reason to believe that Dr. Andrews was not kidnapped, but has voluntarily disappeared and we believe he may be attempting to sell information on his latest project. Anything you can tell us would be helpful." You sigh, and sit back, feeling even more tense than you had a second ago. He had just spoken your greatest fear aloud.
"I can't tell you much," you say quietly. "David Andrews was a quiet, polite, unassuming man. He was never late, he never called in sick, his reports were always on time. He was working on something… dangerous. I just can't imagine him doing something like this."
"Debt can make a man do just about anything," Sherlock says.
"Debt?" you ask, not convinced. "Dr. Andrews was paid quite handsomely, I assure you."
"Not all debt is monetary," Sherlock says, standing to leave.
"What does that mean?" you ask him. "What does he mean?" you turn to John.
"I assume your MOD background checks showed that Dr. Andrews was orphaned at a young age," Sherlock said, turning back to you. You nod, slowly. "And that he was raised by an aunt?" Again you nod. "Did those background checks show you that his aunt lived in an apartment building owned by one Terrance Walsh?"
"Terrance Walsh, the crime boss?" you ask, shaking your head. "No… no they didn't."
"Shame," he said, turning away again, placing a hand on the door knob. "Could have saved you an awful lot of time and headache." He pulled the door open and left without another word, his long coat trailing behind him.
"Wait," you call, dashing past John and out into the hall after him. "Wait," you say again as you reach him. You place your hand on his arm to slow him and he jerks away as if you've burned him. You recoil your hand as well, wishing to God you hadn't just done that. "Look, I can't talk here," you whisper, your eyes pleading with him to understand. He looks down at you, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. He's irritated. Very irritated. It's not a pleasant emotion that you've evoked, but it's something. Finally, you see his features softened almost imperceptibly.
"221B Baker Street," he says at last. You nod showing your understanding and then he's off again, disappearing around the corner.
"Thank you for your time," John says as he passes you, following quickly behind his friend.
"My pleasure," you say automatically, your eyes on still locked on the spot where Sherlock had been standing. After a few long moments, you catch yourself and straighten up, smoothing down your blazer and turning on your heel.
"You're not a damn kid anymore," you whisper harshly to yourself, vowing that Sherlock Holmes will not have the same effect that he had on you all those years ago. Not this time… not again.
It's pouring rain as you dash from your cab to the front steps of 221 Baker Street. You ring the bell and wait, holding your briefcase over your head and cursing your distracted brain for letting you leave your umbrella back at your office.
The double whammy of Sherlock Holmes striding back into your life along with the news of David Andrew's possible mob ties had rendered you pretty much useless. Now, you were here, at his home, sopping wet. Your rang the bell again and again and again and finally the door was yanked open by John Watson. You stumble inside and drip for a second on the mat.
"Sorry, forgot my umbrella," you grumble.
"Come on upstairs and we will get you dried up," John replies with a kind smile. You want to like him, you decide, but have serious concerns about his character since he does appear to be friends with Sherlock.
" You were friends with Sherlock once ," your inner monologue taunts at you and you grit your teeth as you follow John up the stairs.
Once inside, you see Sherlock at the kitchen table, looking down into a microscope. You wait for him to acknowledge you as John takes your soaking wet rain coat and hangs it for you on a coat hook.
"Can I get you a cup of tea? And maybe a towel? John laughs.
"Tea would be great, and just point me in the direction of your washroom," you ask. He does and when you return, you are slightly more dry and put together. You sit on the couch and Sherlock takes the chair to your right while John leans against the desk.
"You mentioned earlier that David lived in one of Walsh's buildings," you start. "And you think this ties them together somehow?"
"It does," Sherlock says, leaning forward. "It appears as if Walsh took young David under his wing, keeping him out of the blue collar crime life, but using him for more white collar endeavors. We also found several large funds transfers to his Aunt's bank account during David's years at university and later medical school. These transfers were from a dummy corporation that we were able to trace back to Walsh."
"But… why?" you ask, struggling to process this.
"Insurance," John answers. "As far as we can guess. He bankrolls a bright, successful young man, ensuring that he will have someone to care for him or help him out later. He sets him up with a nice life, no ties back to his organization, no one will suspect that one day, when he needs help, it will be Dr. Andrews that will he will be calling on."
"But you two figured it out?" you say, astonished.
"Well, one of us did," Sherlock smirks.
"Humble as ever," you murmur.
"How's your fiance?" Sherlock asks. You frown and subconsciously hide your left hand under your right.
"I don't have a fiance" you say evenly.
"Ah,yes," he replies, his voice taking on an air of condescension. "A recent development, I'd say… about three months ago. End of August?" You begin to feel ill as he pin points the exact time you'd called off the wedding. "You see," he said turning to John, "Her ring finger is tan except for the white band of flesh where her considerable diamond sat all summer, protecting the skin underneath it from the sun, keeping it pale."
"Stop it, Sherlock," John instructs, his voice firm.
"No, no, it's fine," he says. "She's the one who broke it off, isn't that right?" He looks at you, but you're too angry to answer. "Yes, it was. Still searching for something, are we Y/N? Still hoping to find that elusive soul mate? Still hung up on true love?"
"Sherlock!" John said, much louder this time. You force yourself from the couch, standing on shaking legs, rage coursing through your veins. You push past him and grab you still wet coat.
"Oh, no, I found true love long ago," you say as you pull it on and tie the belt around your waist. "Just my luck he turned out to be heartless bastard who could only love himself." And with that, you fled the flat, slamming the door behind you and bounding down the stairs.
You burst onto the sidewalk, chest heaving and stand in the rain taking a moment to compose yourself. Hot, angry tears burn at your eyes.
"For fucks sake," you yell, throwing your hands up as you realize you left your briefcase up there. You turn your collar up around your neck and turn to head back inside. As you reach for the doorknob, it's jerked away from you and you see John standing there, holding your bag.
"I am so sorry about that," he says, his sweet features all apologetic
"Don't apologize for him," you say. "I should have been prepared… I should have known better…"
"Look, I know it's not my business but why don't you let me buy you dinner and maybe you can fill me in on what exactly the nature of your relationship with Sherlock is." He gestures to Speedy's right beside you and you find yourself agreeing. It has been too long since you'd spoken about what happened all those years ago. Maybe it was time.
"Dinner with Y/N?" Sherlock asked John when he returned much later. Sherlock had changed into his pajamas and robe and was sitting in his chair, running a bit of resin up and down his violin bow.
"It was the least I could do after you were so bloody awful to her," he said, shaking the raindrops from his hair.
"And I am sure she told you all about… us?" he said.
"A bit, here and there," John replied, trying his best to be vague, but knowing this was a useless endeavor around Sherlock Holmes.
"And I am sure she told you all about how awful I was," he asked, blowing a bit of resin dust from the bowstrings.
"No actually," John said, heading to his room for the night, "That I could figure out on my own."
John sat on the edge of his bed and kicked off his shoes. He liked Y/N. She was nice enough, pretty, confident and intelligent. He'd enjoyed their meal and although he knew there were two sides to every story, the one that Y/N had relayed over dinner certainly helped shed some light on the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.
Downstairs, Sherlock placed the violin under his chin and brought the bow to bear on its strings, but he could hear no melody in his head. He played a few random notes before angrily tossing the instrument aside. He walked to the window and looked down on Baker Street below. It was getting colder outside and soon they'd be barraged with snow instead of rain. He'd never concerned himself with the feelings of others these days, sentiment being an emotion he categorically avoided. He'd rattled of his observations day after day, not bothering himself with whether or not his comments made the subject uncomfortable or not, not caring if he upset John or made the situation awkward.
But tonight's encounter with Y/N had left him feeling… Well… Feeling. And it was not something he'd experienced much of lately. He hadn't expected this and it was a terrible inconvenience because she knew more than she was telling them and she was absolutely vital to this investigation.
He turned and picked up the violin again, a song he'd not played in years taking shape inside him.