Disclaimer: Don't own. Sherlock Holmes, 2009, is © Guy Ritchie and is based on the series by Conan Doyle. The story was written by ALadInSane (link on my bio).

Sherlock blinked, resisting the urge to wipe away the sweat that dripped down his face, dangerously close to his eyes. The opponent would see the movement as an attack, and would react accordingly. Observe . . . what are his weaknesses?

Swollen area in neck and lower jaw, exhibits pain when swallowing—most likely cause is tooth decay, probably a result of a chipped or cracked molar. Intense pain will occur when hit. Also: stiffness in upper back, near shoulder blade, seems to be a partially healed fracture of the vertebrae. When back is exposed, take advantage of this with a vertical punch to the damaged nerves. Such an injury will limit his range of motion. Next, kick to left patella. End result: inability to walk or move arms, inability to talk—enough damage to neutralize any threat from the opponent.

Plan is put into effect in three . . . two . . .

Sherlock moved in a blur of speed. He feinted with his left hand; the opponent leaned away from the blow, eyes full of one movement as the other fist swung around and cracked loudly on his jaw. Roaring with pain and anger, the opponent lunged forward, enabling the slimmer man to slip past and slam a punch between his shoulder blades. Back arched, neck twisted, the mountain of flesh could do nothing as Sherlock snapped out with a heel kick to the side of his knee. After a moment, pain and gravity won the struggle to remain standing, and with a crash that shook the entire foundation, the opponent collapsed in a shivering heap. Annihilation occurs in less than seven seconds.

Silence filled the arena.

: :

The maid noiselessly placed the decanter on the desk, studiously ignoring the young man sitting across the table. She moved to pour, but froze at the sharp gesture from the older man. Eyes never leaving the papers piled in front of him, the second man waved towards the door. Quickly, the maid walked out of the room, cheeks stained red as she brushed sleeves with the young man on her way to the door.

The elder gentleman spoke first. "Now, I have called you here to . . . Son, I demand you look at me when I am speaking! It is unseemly to stare after common servant girls in such a manner."

Mycroft looked away from the door, face flushed. "Yes, Father. I apologize."

"As you should be." The man sniffed, "Now if I have your attention"—causing another blush—"I called you today to discuss matters of business with you. As you are obviously aware, being the older son, it is your duty to provide for the family should I pass on. This means an eligible marriage within the next few years. Although both of your siblings will inherit a sizable amount, you will receive, along with the London flat and the country house, a large yearly allowance. See here . . ."

Trying not to yawn, Mycroft stared blankly at the receipt that his father was pushing towards him. Issued by the Bank of England, some time ago, if the dust is anything to go by. Some fool made a mistake printing: those numbers don't add up. They must have switched the shillings and pence. With a start, the young man realized that his father was still speaking.

". . . This, of course, means that we shall have to attend the Christmas Eve celebration at Sir Bennett's. . . ."

Bennett—colonel in the 5th Northumberland Artillery, knighted for services in war to the Crown. Married to née Mary Ashlock, second cousin through marriage to Queen Victoria herself. Every unmarried girl within the county will be there, and it would be a disgrace to the family to do anything rash in public . . .

Mycroft acknowledged the careful planning that his father had put into the decision. It was almost a pity that it would not work.

: :

Ailith studied the room intently. A typical doctor's office—neutral beige wallpaper that matched the almost-gold curtains, an uncomfortable chair with hard cushions, a wide, stained-wood table with a Gladstone bag sitting on top. The general air of forced concern that lingered like the smell of overly ripe fruit.

She absolutely hated doctors.

Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door, slow and pompous. The door slid open smoothly on oiled hinges. A large man with a frosted beard stepped in. His nose and cheeks were touched with red; his eyes squinted against the light from the open window. The Doctor closed the door behind him.

Footsteps are approximately eight inches apart, one every three seconds. At this rate, it would take about one hour to walk 0.151515 miles (266.6 yards; 799.8 feet). Judging by shadow length and time of day (three minutes past one o'clock), height is five feet seven inches. Weight is—

"Well, young lady. It is a pleasure to meet you!" The Doctor cut off her train of thought with an enormous, forced grin and an outstretched hand. The smile faltered when Ailith did nothing but stare at him. He coughed, "Ah, well. I am Doctor James Hornbacher. It is my honor to be here today to talk to you—"

"Quel type de médicine que tu étudies?" Ailith interrupted. What type of medicine do you study? It was a bit rough, but she hadn't had a chance to really practice since Geneviève had gone back to Paris.

"Eh, what was that? Never mind, never mind. Now, Miss Ailith, I want to talk about something that your parents have brought to my attention. I am told that you sometimes have trouble sleeping?"

Ailith saw a flicker of motion in the corner of her eye. Turning her head, it disappeared.

"Miss?"

Yes, there was definitely something there, in the edge of her vision, creeping along the wall.

"Miss Ailith, is something wrong?"

The thing was gone, but now she knew they had followed her. A cold finger ran down her spine, causing her to twitch into a tight ball.

"Miss Ailith!"

The girl looked up, an amicable expression on her face. "Yes, Doctor?"

Hornbacher frowned deeply, brows beetling over watery grey eyes. After a moment he said, "I have been informed that you also have sudden mood swings and periods were you display paranoia?"

She bit her lip, confusion evident on her fair features. "I don't know what you mean," Ailith lied.

Dr. Hornbacher chuckled. "Now, now, Miss Ailith, it would be best to simply tell me what is troubling you. It really is in your best interests." His voice seemed to grow softer, wrapping around her like choking mist. "Let's see . . . do you take any form of medication?"

A bottle, hidden under a bed that was not hers, the sharp silver of the needle, a familiar feeling as the drug pumped through the vein . . . "No."

"Thank you," scratching of pen on paper as he wrote something in a little notebook. "Miss Ailith, I must ask—"

The girl concentrated, focusing her thoughts on his. No more questions. You have asked me enough. I need to be going now.

The clock chimed, causing Hornbacher to glance up. "Goodness gracious, half past already! Well, well, I think that there are no more questions, I have asked you enough for today. Miss Ailith, I'll hand you off to your mother and you can be going now!"

Ailith smiled sweetly, savoring the headiness as power rushed through her. It was better than anything she had ever experienced. She leapt down from the chair and bounded across the room, stopping at the door. "Thank you, Doctor. I can see myself out."

Once again, this is written by a friend of mine, ALadInSane, not me. Go to my bio to find a link to her page.

Over & Out,

Pepper