This is completely and utterly AU, a one-off at this point. It is not beta'd in the least, but I did try not to be ridiculously American. I think I may try to take this beginning and make a full story out of it based on some the characters from The Illustrious Client, but I'm still working on that idea. However, I think of this as a slice of life story that could stand on its own.
I apologize for any and all errors.
Obviously I own nothing. But BBC and ACD are still fun places to play.
Hope you enjoy the story.
000Enecs000
Two persons came into the familiar building, late, and both were exhausted. The taller one took the stairs two at a time—hard, flat steps. The shorter one stepped as though each movement's energy had to be created on the spot.
The lights seemed extraordinarily bright when they came on in the kitchen for the shorter of the two, "Oi, the room was a mess. He still lives like this?" was the first thought that came to the shorter one's mind.
"Sit." Sherlock pulled out a chair nearest the wall and moved around the table. Under the sink was the medical kit. John always checked when he came by so he wasn't worried about its contents. Only after he pulled out the kit and made room to put it on the table from the Bunsen burner, beakers and pipettes did he take off his coat and laid it across the chair next to him. After that he turned to the sink and washed his hands before turning back to his patient.
"What did you think you were trying to do?" he asked as he sat in the chair between the patient and the coat.
"Was tryin' to keep you from getting shot," Was the dry sarcastic answer. With that she put her uninjured right arm up on the table, folding it back to use as a pillow.
"I didn't need you for that. You were to lookout for Gruner's approach and inform me, then the police, that was the whole of your assignment. Put your arm up on the table."
"Well you didn't say anything about two people, now did you?" This time she knew she sounded petulant, but she could help it, her arm hurt and she was hungry and tired.
Sherlock didn't reply. There was always something, wasn't there? He found out after the arrest that someone spotted him following up on a lead he'd deduced a few days ago and got the story back to Gruner, who promptly got himself a little protection. He'd have to be more careful in the future, changing to blend in more; all this "boffin detective" nonsense was getting in the way of the work he needed to do and he wondered if he could ever go back to the days of just going out his front door and being lost for days at a time before it was noticed. Between John, the media and even Mycroft he very much doubted it.
Now he looked at the young woman, irritated; did he really have to say it? "I can't attend your arm with that shirt still on. Really, I know it was your favorite shirt but it's a rag now. You might as well throw it away."
She returned a hateful expression, "Next time I follow the instructions to the letter." She replied before she carefully maneuvered the shirt off with her good arm and laid it across her lap.
"This will sting—hold still." The wounds needed to be cleaned and dressed. She had disappeared off from the scene by the time things had calmed down enough for him to see how she'd faired. He finally saw her as he was in a cab headed for the NSY standing at a bus stop some blocks away, standing there in what appeared to be a snatched and torn Henley, a tank underneath preserving her modesty and a slightly dazed expression. Only when he saw her did he remember hearing a small cry as everything was turning to chaos.
She had done her assignment as he had instructed her, to alert him to Gruner's arrival and call the police and give his location and situation he was facing. Adelburt Gruner had gone to ground after the murder of his wife, and after studying the man, his habits and finances Sherlock was certain that he hadn't left town just yet. He was a vindictive man, this Gruner, and his sister-in-law was the one who objected to the marriage originally–she never believed the sad sack story he gave that explained his previous wife's death—and she pointed the police squarely in his direction after her sister died, helped destroyed his alibi and gave the police the details needed to charge him with the crime. Gruner saw it coming however and had disappeared before he could be taken in. But he wouldn't be satisfied with just escaping justice, no, Sherlock was fully convinced that the man wouldn't be happy until he had put this woman in the ground next to her sister. The parking structure that her office used was by far the most vulnerable place to ambush the woman and from there it was a cab ride to the airport—mostly likely on the 19:15 to Marrakesh that same night (hacking had its advantages) as an Albert Baron. A last minute flight had been booked and, really, who books a flight to Marrakesh at the last minute?
He would have disappeared completely after that.
But the detective didn't know he'd been made, as he found out from his surly lookout after having the cab stop and berating her until she crossed the road and climbed in the back with him. Splitting his attention between her story and his phone he found out a second man appeared shortly after her calls, skulking in moments after the original plan had been set in motion. Every warning bell inside her began to alarm; this, he, wasn't right. Yeah he was wearing a big jacket, but still, he was a big guy and when he moved just so—well, she knew it wasn't the cops, not this quick. He followed Gruner and she followed him.
She knew it was stupid, but she couldn't stop herself. She wasn't even sure what she was going to do. If she called the police or Sherlock the guy would hear her. If she stopped to let him move away she'd lose them and then what if something happened she could have stopped? So, she continued on, moving as quietly as fog in the night. Then he did it, brought out the gun she'd seen pressing against his jacket. In a fear-fueled moment that Sherlock later pronounced as reckless, she ran up behind the man, putting her foot in hard and swift into the back of his knee, felling him like a tree. In the cause of making sure he went down she'd brought her fists together down on his face. In his shock his gun went off, bullets bouncing off of walls and cars. He grabbed her shirt as he went and she jerked back instinctively, but not quick enough to keep from going down herself. It had all taken moments.
She didn't stay down long, in part because she had achieved her aim. The hulk had been knocked out by his impact with the concrete. She didn't see blood but had heard a sickening crack when he hit and, more importantly, she wasn't trying to wait and see if he was going to stay down. She dragged herself away and pulled out her phone again, calling Lestrade directly to tell him that a man with a gun had been following the detective but that he was down on the floor below the main suspect, most likely alive. She ended the call immediately, escaping the building as fast as she could, removing the battery from the phone, and taking the sim card and snapping it in two. She'd throw it away when she got further away from the scene. Quickly she did her best to arrange her clothes before she stepped out the structure into the night.
She wasn't exactly big on trust, having lived rough for a good portion of her teenage years. She'd been on the streets for a time before Sherlock chose her to be in his network, and she wasn't about to stand around and wait for some copper to believe her when she told her story. Sherlock could fill in those gaps, being clever and all. Her shirt was ruined. That should be enough.
She hadn't been in the network for a few years now. Now she was more one of his "irregulars." There to fill the gap in a pinch. He had been the one to help her find a place, miniscule, but clean and safe and then got her in touch with people when she showed an aptitude with numbers. With a bit of schooling she was a bookkeeper now. She owed him, she never forgot that. Having admitted that, she still wanted to take a cricket bat to his head whenever he called. Something of hers always got ruined behind one of his "requests."
She couldn't help hissing in the latest application of disinfectant. She opened her eyes narrowly at the bottle of pain before looking at the progress on her injuries, "An ape with talons, who knew?"
Sherlock looked at her staring at the wounds. Short hair, dyed a deepest blue over her dark hair, giving the iridescence of a hummingbird to her curly hair faux-hawk instead of looking clown-like. Her shirt had matched it completely. No wonder she was still pouting about it.
"This one isn't one of his 'talons,'" all the other gouges were on her upper arm, the last was below the elbow, going straight across, "you were grazed by a bullet. Part of your beloved Henley is actually imbedded in the wound. If you'd paid attention you'd see it's not even going in the same direction as the other marks."
Her eyes rounded and she moved in closer to look at it before looking back at her medic, "He shot me?! I shoulda had another go at him!" She looked back down and did indeed see bits of blue fabric that Sherlock was picking away. He took the back of his hand and pushed her forehead out of the way, "You're in my light," he told her, "and it wasn't so much that he shot you than a fragment of a bullet ricocheted and hit you. Otherwise you'd be in the hospital now."
Rolling her eyes before closing them again and placing her head back on her good arm, she sighed, "Yeah. You really are pedantic, aren't you? Thanks for working on my arm and all, but I really am tired and I've got work in the morning. So you know—just do."
The room was silent after that, he didn't ask how she was feeling and she didn't voice any pain, flinching only occasionally, not even lifting her head from its resting position. She could feel he was near completion and she was beginning to think of her own bed and how long it was going to take her to get to it when the doorbell rang.
She lifted her head and glanced at the doorway before looking at Sherlock who was holding a crisp note in her face, "that would be delivery. I ordered Thai. Get it if you will," was the whole of his explanation.
Her head rolled back to the ceiling, "It beggars belief," she muttered but she took the money and trudged down to the door and exchanged it for the food. The scent of the meal nearly drove her to take his dinner and just go home with it. When she laid it on the kitchen table she announced that she was done, "I can finish the last of this at home. Thanks for cleaning me up. Lose my number for a while, yeah? I have to save up for a new shirt."
"I got the dinner for you. And you still have to give your statement to the police in the morning, so you might as well use John's room and we can get it done after you've had some sleep." To silence the coming protest he continued, "If you didn't want to have to make a statement you shouldn't have left your boot print in the back of the gorilla's leg. Lestrade is not so blind as to mistake the size of my foot for yours." He watched her stomp in silent protest before sitting back down, pouting as she opened up the bag to peer in.
"And I'm not done with your arm yet. You can eat when I'm finished." He really thought she was about to throw the whole bag at his head at that point, her frustration was that palatable. Instead she gave the mother of all sulks, muttered about his parentage and moved her shirt from where she laid it on the table to get the food and used it to cushion her arm as she rested her head again and gave her injured arm back to Sherlock.
He glanced at her when she closed her eyes again, a brief grin ghosted his face before it quickly disappeared. There was a time when she not only would have thrown the food at him but flipped the table besides if he told her she'd have to go to the police with him. Definitely a little less feral now then she was then. The ring in her brow was gone now, but the unequal number of studs in her ears remained. The heavy liner around her eyes and dark lipstick was now replaced with highly stylized eyebrows and eyelashes she lacquered until they looked doll-like. Solidly built, but lean, there was something about her that called to mind a leopard, she moved about like she owned the place, even in her blue shirt, blue plaid leggings and deceptively quiet boots, which was why he used her in situations like the one that had just passed. Wherever she was, was exactly where she was supposed to be and no one questioned it. She could probably dye her hair crayon-yellow and put a bone thru her nose and have the same effect. And that ability was definitely of use tonight.
"Done. Take everything with you upstairs. You've got no more than 10 minutes before you pass out and I have no intention of waking up to the smell of Pad Thai noodles throughout my flat." With that Sherlock packed up his medical kit and put it away as she watched, leaving a packet of two pain relievers in front her without comment, and went to his room, firmly shutting the door.
She had been sitting there fighting her first inclination to head straight for the door; defying Sherlock usually came with consequences. He would see a thing done if he had to go through you to do it and she didn't feel like watching her back, waiting for that to happen. So she gathered up her ruined Henley and dinner and headed up to the room, never doubting his warning of her 10 minute clock.
000Enecs000
John would never admit it, but he wasn't just going over to find out how Sherlock's case was going. He hadn't heard a word from the man and it was going into the fourth day. No major thing for any other friendship, but not hearing from him a command for assistance, a snide compliant, or something completely non sequitur (two weeks ago he received a text which said "In what universe is 'Moon Unit' a proper name?") well, it made him more than a little distressed.
So, he came up the stairs ready to believe anything as long as his friend was there and in good working order. Or so he thought. The flat was quiet but John thought he heard noises coming from the back so he moved in that direction. Sherlock could be just getting up or just going to sleep depending on how the case had progressed, and his mood would go accordingly, so he girded himself up mentally for an acidic attitude.
So he was in no way prepared for the young woman who stepped out of the bathroom, wearing just an over-sized t-shirt.
They stared at each other, wide-eyed, for all of two seconds before the girl did an about face and went back into the bathroom at the same moment as he decided to turn around and stare into the sitting room. He began mumbling to himself:
"Again?! I can't believe this is happening again! Right. So, um, maybe I should make some loud announcement if I haven't called or maybe I ought to make Sherlock hang a sock—" he began working out when he heard:
"Dr. Watson? That's you, isn't it? Remember me? Catherine Winter? Kitty?"
John turned around when she called to him. That voice was familiar. Catherine? Kitty?
"Oh, Tomcat, right?!"
Kitty winced when she heard that old moniker. She hadn't gone by it in years and only a few people ever dared use it. A friend had named her that because he thought 'Kitty' was a ridiculous name for her. So he took the 'Cat' portion of her first name and married it to 'tom' because she was the scrappiest thing he knew, like the alley cats that wandered the city. Little and fierce. No one made the mistake of offending her twice.
"Yeah, yeah, that's me. But I just go by Kitty now."
"Yes. Yes, of course. How are you Kitty?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Got caught in one of Sherlock's schemes last night, but everything turned out okay," Kitty's way of informing the good doctor that things were definitely NOT how they looked. She had put on the pants that she'd left on the floor and ran her hands through her faux-hawk to perk it up a bit and stepped back into the hallway.
"And you, good doctor? How are you things going for you?"
She looked so young, John thought to himself, as she stood there barefoot and bare-faced, a slight smile on her lips. She had a permanent scowl on her face back when—before the world changed. She was one of the few who had never touched a pipe, pill or needle. This was mainly because she chose to be invisible to all but the closest of people. Where others of the network believed in safety in numbers—along with the peer pressure that often brings, she believed in "out of sight, out of mind" and went through great lengths to practice it. She wore her makeup and piercings like war paint, a visual sign of her ferocity, and bristled quickly when a person presumed to know her. It was probably why Sherlock had reached out to her in the first place. He never could resist a challenge.
The woman in front of him was very much scaled back version of the girl before, in some ways she looked freer, more open to life.
"Things are going well—."
"Sorry you caught me like that—I was going to put the kettle on before I finished dressing, oh, and sorry but I think I'm wearing one of your old shirts. I found it in the wardrobe upstairs". She wasn't used to being this flustered over something so ordinary. But she always had thought Dr. Watson to be a good man, which is why she was probably running off at the mouth.
"No. No. That's fine. No really. So—Sherlock isn't here?" He trailed the end of the question.
"Uh. I was half asleep when I heard him say: 'Be ready when I get back.' I honestly don't know how much time passed before I was awake enough to remember what he said. That's why I was running around half dressed. I just finished texting my job and I needed some caffeine, and you know how he is."
John did. Caffeinated or not, she'd be leaving the house when he was ready to go. Taking pity on her he went and pulled out a mug and the tea along with the sugar after she gave him visual approval, and she began filling the kettle.
"So you're still working the case then?"
"Uh, no. Finished up late last night. I have to go down to Scotland Yard with him to give a statement."
John felt the twinge of regret having missed the end of the case, kind of what one feels when after investing nearly two hours watching a movie you end up missing the end of it through some last minute interference. In this instance he'd been called in to cover for a colleague who came down with a severe form of the flu. Doctors, through constant exposure to germs, tended to hardier to them, so when one did catch up with them it was usually a doozy. And no one wants a runny-nosed doctor treating them. John had been working shifts for his sick colleague for days.
"You caught Gruner then?"
"Yeah, him and his gorilla friend," she pointed to her arm that she saw him eyeing, "Sherlock cleaned me up last night. The gorilla was there to look after Gruner, but I caught him before anything happened."
John didn't understand a word of what she just said other than Sherlock had tended her wounds, and she proudly offered her arm when he asked to look at them. Good job on them too. He should be though, seeing how many times he's been able to watch the process first hand.
"The end one was a bullet," and John eyed Kitty because she seemed rather proud of it, "well, fragment anyway. It had a piece of my shirt in it. Do you think I can get compensation for my shirt? That was my favorite one. Went with my hair and everything."
He was thankfully saved from answering that question by the door opening downstairs. Automatically it became apparent that there was more than one person coming up the stairs. And John recognized who they were immediately.
"It seems someone brought the mountain to Mohammed."
Next thing there was Sherlock and DI Lestrade in the kitchen. "Oh good, you're ready. John glad you could join us," he said as if he had offered an invite, "you may well be able to fill in blanks."
"Fill in blanks? I have a question myself. Why was there a gorilla roaming around London with a gun shooting people?"
"Wait? What? You said nothing about anyone being shot. Who was shot?" Lestrade demanded. Everyone replied at once:
"She was."
"That would be me."
"She was barely shot. A fragment grazed her arm."
Kitty decided to continue while she still had a chance, "And I'd like to have my ruined shirt replaced, if at all possible. Selfridges still carries 'em and I'd like to get one before they go out of stock."
"Oh for heaven's sake!" Sherlock growled out while Lestrade and John sniggled.
"Well, why not? Sherlock it was just a shirt to you, but it was the first new thing I've bought myself in near a year! And have I ever complained before? Really, have I? I mean, I know how to make cheap look good; but I just wanted something new for a change." Embarrassed now with all the eyes on her she pushed through the detective and the DI into the sitting room and threw herself onto the chair at the table, folding her arms over herself, "You know what?! Forget it. Just ask your stupid questions so I can get out of here." She could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into her as she stared at some middling space. She decided to return the favor, all the resentment and anger she felt concentrated in her eyes. Sherlock wasn't quite as mad as she thought he'd be but at that point all she wanted was to pound on him so she didn't get an inch.
"Well, I don't know—" Lestrade began, but Sherlock cut in.
"You should have told me."
"Why would you care?" She sneered then turned to Lestrade, "What d'ya needa to know?"
Now that was the Tomcat that John remembered. The first time they approached her to pay for some information she hurled all sorts of verbal abuse at them because she hadn't believed a word they said. Some posh git thug and his lieftenant offering money for a just little errand work? Did he really think she was that stupid? She took the last of the apple she was eating, threw it directly at Sherlock's face (which he barely dodged) and crossed into the road, dodging London traffic like a professional and disappearing into a store.
"Well I guess that's that. Any other people you think can help us?" John offered after a silence spent digesting what had just happened.
Sherlock smiled to himself, "Yes, I guess that is that. And no, no one else." With that they left without explaining himself further. It was week later, a rather creative tour through the theatre district and an especially interesting spelunking expedition of parts of the underground that surprised them both before they caught up with her scowling face again, sitting on an abandoned station platform. Sherlock presented the same proposition of information for pay—along with a bag that Sherlock held out to her. He called it a "signing bonus." She looked in the bag and her scowl shifted into a reluctant twitch of a smile, "I heard you guys were mental" was her reply. She studied the contents of the bag again then looked off and away while she thought about the offer. "Listen, I can't promise nothing, but I might be able to find what you're looking for." With that she took the bag and went up the stairs of the platform leaving them standing on the track floor. Sherlock seemed satisfied with the result and they headed back the way they came.
"You know if we followed her up we might get out of here quicker," John commented.
"And one sound of our feet on those stairs will result in that bag being shot at my head, again, and most likely a shove down the stairs for you. This way is safer and a protection of my investment."
"You mean bribe."
"I mean investment."
The next morning the detective received a text in the middle of breakfast. John watched him read it then head towards the door, blue robe trailing behind like a cape and returned with a smug smile on his face and a familiar looking bag in his hand. Sherlock smiled at small, numbered plastic bags he pulled out with what looked like small bits of dirt inside each.
"As I said, investment." He crowed.
"That's from Tomcat?"
Sherlock showed John his phone. There was a picture of a house in one, the next showed a picture of shoes with a letter laying across the top; it was the name and address of a racketeer they'd been trying to catch up with. John looked up from the phone:
"You wanted her to take a picture of someone's shoes?"
The detective's smug smile slid directly into a frown and his left eye twitched. "You want me to insult you. That's it, isn't it?" With that he slapped down the little plastic baggies on the table in front of John. "She took samples from Rosemont's shoes. She marked the bags in the order of the pictures. Studying the dirt I'll have a better idea of where he's meeting his clients. I should even be able to tell where he's having his product brought in at."
"You told her to do this?"
"Read the text."
"They say you can read dirt like you read ash (read your site). I figure a bloke doesn't clean the bottom of his shoes unless he's got special reason to. Samples are in order of pictures. I may not know where he's going, but this should tell you where he's been."
"Oh — this one is clever." John chuckled, pointing to the text.
"As I said: Investment." Sherlock replied enunciating each word.
"What was it you gave her anyway?"
Sherlock gave him that 'Now you asking the right questions' smile, "When she was reading us the riot act I was studying her. Most young girls can't get along living rough without turning to selling themselves. She saw us coming a mile off, but there nothing about her was even remotely accommodating towards us and I'm reasonably sure she had some form of weapon on her person if she felt it necessary to use it."
"Next was her face. She had an interesting shade of makeup on—didn't match the skin at the back of her neck, and I don't think that was by accident. A bit was on her jacket and it had a density to it that seemed quite unusual. After talking to a few people with the theatre, I feel sure she uses specialty makeup to change her appearance. And seeing how hard it was for me to find her, I doubt she uses the same name for each look. In fact, I think she has more than one bolt hole and identities to go with each and probably an emergency identity that no one else is aware of. I decided to give her some tools and makeup to help her with her efforts."
Sherlock picked up the baggies and sat in front of his microscope, reaching for a tray to prepare some slides, "Recognizing talent is important John. Never forget that. I don't." John thought on that a moment and wondered if he was giving the compliment he thought he was, but decided he'd rather help prepare slides with a slight smile on his face than question it.
Thirty-six hours later Lestrade and his team were taking Rosemont and a number of others into custody along with a large shipment of weapons headed to Mexico in exchange for drugs. After that, Up until The Fall, Sherlock kept a watchful eye on Tomcat, aiding her progress, finally getting her out of the network altogether.
Remembering that, John gave a little smile to himself as he watched the now young woman Kitty giving everyone a solid stare-down and turned to make her that much needed cup of tea.
Later that night a Selfridges box showed up at Kitty's door, with a shirt that matched the exact shade of her iridescent hair.
AN: The thought is to give Sherlock a life that in which John is still a major part, but not the only part. And Kitty Winter is a favorite of mine because she is not a love interest, but she is still strong and in the 21stcentury could be a working ally and friend.