And She's Dangerous

Chapter One

"She's a rebel,

She's a saint,

She's salt of the earth,

And she's dangerous"

John

The cosy mess of 221B Baker Street looks so welcoming now, after another day, another case finally solved. Cold steel, white labs, gunshots – all can be forgotten. Block out the science equipment littering what should be the dining table and the living room almost looks normal. Faded cushions, piles of tatty books, dull carpet and pictures on the walls. Keep the fridge door closed and it's fine. I look at Sherlock, and his faced doesn't mirror the inward sighs of relief I feel. He has rounded the sofa and his face is sharp, his head tilted and his brow furrowed.

His lips move briefly. "Diana." He says the name in the lowest humming murmur, but draws out the syllables melodically.

I walk to stand next to him, too exhausted to ask him.

Sure enough, there's Diana Foxe curled up, asleep, on our sofa.

Wild dark curls are matted with sweat and her caramel skin glistens with it, dirtied with mud and wounds. Several slashes on her arms weep redness, and her left cheek is caked in blackened blood. Black cut-off shorts are tight against her taut thighs, her muscles clenched in her sideways crouch. Her baggy white shirt clings in places from sweat, stained with patches of scarlet, ripped and fraying round the edges.

MI6 agent. Started in linguistics, now a top operational officer overseas. A beast of an interrogator, lethal in combat, perfect shot, fluent in countless languages and with an almost too quick-witted awareness capable of manipulation and strategic skill beyond belief. Known through Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. Sherlock had met her once, when she'd dropped down from the roof in Mycroft's office.

"Diana Foxe?" I say to Sherlock. I blink as I utter the words, and just like that she is on her feet, her gun trained on me. I've never seen someone snap out of sleep quicker with the possible exception of my flatmate.

Quicker again than I can grasp the situation, her body has relaxed and the gun dropped, her lethally beautiful face melting into a magnetic smile.

"Sorry," she says smoothly, "Just being cautious."

I nod my acceptance, still slightly shocked, and turn to Sherlock for assurance. But he is watching her, with a quiet fascination only evident by his bright eyes. His face is as controlled, as always.

"Nice to see you again Sherlock," she nods to him, and a twitch of a smile graces the corner of his mouth before his expression is set again. "And you must be Dr. Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise. Did… Sherlock tell you about me?" I try to offer a smile.

"No." Her head flicks around the room as if it were a routine check, then back to me with gracious concern in her eyes. "You must be wondering why I'm here."

"Well you're obviously-" Sherlock begins his act but her sharp green eyes flash at him.

"I'd like to explain myself, Sherlock, as much as I enjoy your little deductions. John, I needed a place to go. I've got an Italian mafia gang after me. If I went to a hotel, they'd kill the customers. If I went to a friends' they'd kill them. If I went somewhere on my own there's a good chance 30 vs. 1 I'd be outnumbered. You'd think they'd set me up with a secure location but once you get to a certain level with MI6, their expectations of you rocket; you're on your own. I couldn't go anywhere without putting someone in danger, and I thought you," she looks briefly at Sherlock, then back to me, "Would be better at coping with it.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to put you in danger."

"It's fine," Sherlock's voice is cold and commanding, as if to settle the matter. She shoves her gun into the back of her shorts and rubs her face, dropping some of her composed pretence.

"I can't believe I fell asleep," she mumbles. "So unprofessional."

"You're obviously exhausted. Want me to take a look at your… wounds?"

"Oh these? I'm fine, had much worse. Go to bed Dr, you need to sleep. And you." She turns her gaze to Sherlock.

"What about you?" he drawls reservedly.

"I need to stay on guard. I'll lead them away."

"I'll wait with you."

"It's dangerous."

"I like danger."

"I'm dangerous."

"I like danger."

I watch the exchange with tired interest. Both stand defiantly, holding themselves proudly. Diana's angular features, from her high cheekbones to her straight nose to her square jaw, are clenched stubbornly. Sherlock's eyes are focused, insisting. Then both give way to amusement, brief smiles and locked eyes. Beginning to feel uncomfortable, I excuse myself.

"I really am sorry Dr. Watson," she says to me with genuine sincerity.

I hesitate, watching her watching me for a reaction. "Call me John."

She smiles, and it is sincere. This one has feelings.