It was well into the morning when she woke up in an unfamiliar place, only to find the other half of the bed cold and empty. Her one-night stand hadn't even bothered to leave a note, but she couldn't say she was particularly disappointed.
They'd had a good time, that was true; but she wasn't really into married men, they caused too much of a commotion in the long run. Stifling a yawn she tiptoed to the bathroom, ran the shower as hot as she could stand it.
Later on, as she stared at her own reflection in the clouded mirror, she found herself musing on her life as it was now. She was thirty-two, had no close friends, and was still blatantly single.
Both her supposed best friend and her last pathetic excuse for a boyfriend had just been using her all along, and while she endeavoured not to dwell on the thought that didn't stop it from hurting a bit.
Mary Watson had fooled her completely. Beneath her sensible and cheerful façade there was a cold and calculating mind, one that even the world's greatest detective hadn't been able to see through.
Speaking of which, she wondered what Sherlock Holmes was up to now. They'd been together – so to speak – for just a few weeks, but that had been enough for her to understand what kind of man he was.
A man who was ready go all the way to hell and back in order to protect the one person he truly cared about. Why he was content with John Watson spending the rest of his life with a dangerous woman like Mary, Janine would probably never understand.
Was it possible for Sherlock to harbour romantic feelings for his former flatmate? And if so, why on earth had he always refrained from acting on them?
Many a time during their farce of a relationship she'd found herself wondering about the man's sexuality; her educated guess was that he was either asexual or bisexual, though she didn't really have much to go by.
A sparkle of amusement stirred inside her chest. Sherlock's love life – or lack thereof – was something that might be fun to poke her nose into, especially since she had nothing better to occupy her mind at this moment in time.
It'd be out of revenge and friendly concern at the same time. She was still inordinately fond of the man, it was quite endearing how clueless he was when it came to such things as sentiments and emotions.
A mischievous smile lit up her features as she slipped into her stilettoes and walked out of the hotel room. Sherlock and Mary weren't the only ones who could play games after all.