1. I don't own these characters, I'm still not making any money, and I don't own the rights to Sherlock.

2. This story doesn't relate to anything that happened on the TV show after season 2. It does, however, follow my Sherlolly mystery series, coming after The Dark Reaches of the Night.

3. The character of Mary Morstan Watson in my stories isn't the same Mary as on BBC's Sherlock. Mine is a doctor specializing in cancer research at St. Bart's. She is smart, kind, quick-tempered, and adventurous; loves taekwondo; and is good friends with Molly. She is alive; she and John don't have children.

~s~s~s~s~s

"I do hope she bought you that coffee. And I hope you have calmed down. There's no need to be so bothered about spilling a beverage."

Sherlock Holmes had looked up from his microscope and flicked his eyes over his best friend for only a fraction of a second, but that's all the time he needed to reach a conclusion.

Pulling out a chair across the kitchen table from his best friend, Dr. John Watson offered a thin-lipped smile. "What are you on about?"

Sherlock nodded to the drink John had just set down. "The woman who spilled her iced coffee on you when you collided with her. I hope she bought you that one as an apology."

With a sigh of resignation, John bowed his head. "So how did you know? Go ahead—you're dying to tell me."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You clearly attempted to blot up all traces of the spill across the front of your shirt, but the trained observer can still see the telltale outline of a coffee stain along with the subsequent light discoloration. If you had spilled at home, you simply would have changed your shirt. Since you didn't, one can deduce that you had your unfortunate accident at Yelland's where you always stop for coffee every Tuesday on your way here. You are very predictable in your routine to anyone paying attention."

Sherlock paused, not for John to confirm his assertions, but to read a text that chimed on his mobile. Molly Hooper was running late, but that was all right. Sherlock had planned to finish his research on the stag beetle before she arrived and he had thirty more minutes left on his current experiment. However, John was still working out the explanation.

"It could have been a Coke. Or tea," he protested.

"A faint aroma still lingers." Sherlock shrugged.

"All right," John conceded. "But why an iced coffee specifically?"

"Since you aren't writhing in pain, you haven't been scalded. Therefore, the drink was cold. You do not like cold coffee, so another person must have spilled her drink on you."

John cleared his throat. "And what did you say about my being bothered?"

Sherlock frowned. "When you are troubled, you stare intently and your nostrils flare. Like right now—just like that. The woman who spilled her drink on you clearly upset you."

"A-ha! How do you know it was a woman?" John looked triumphant, as if he had finally tripped the detective up.

Sherlock purposefully tapped the corner of his mouth. "Not Mary's shade."

~s~s~s~s~s~

John scrubbed the last traces of the red lipstick from his face.

Not Mary's shade indeed.

He stood in the bathroom of the flat he used to share with Sherlock before he moved in with and then married Mary Morstan. He stared blankly at his reflection. Sherlock, as always, had been right about everything—the coffeehouse, the collision, the woman.

But the famous detective hadn't realized why the chance encounter had rattled the doctor. Sherlock had made great strides at identifying the complex emotions surrounding the opposite sex since starting a relationship with Molly Hooper, the youngest pathologist at St. Bart's. The couple had weathered many storms resulting in myriad of feelings. But Sherlock didn't always come to the right conclusion regarding the affect a woman could have on a man.

Even on a married man like John.

And the truth was, Elsie Patrick was the most beautiful woman he had ever met.

~s~s~s~s~s~

John had just pulled opened the dark wooden door to Yelland's when a petite twentysomething wearing a fitted khaki dress had rushed into him on her way out.

"Oh!" was all he could manage as her foamy beverage dripped down the front of his white-and-blue-striped shirt.

"I am so sorry!" she had gasped, snatching several paper napkins off a nearby café table.

A biting retort on his tongue, John was ready to express his anger when he looked the woman full in the face for the first time.

An English rose.

Her pixie-cut hair, which reminded John immediately of a young Mia Farrow, was a rare shade of red gold that played with light and dark and accented her delicate bone structure. Contrasting full red lips was flawless alabaster skin that held a becoming hint of blush.

She was stunning.

Her beautiful mouth was moving, but he was having a hard time understanding her. "You must send me your laundry bill."

The woman, who was at least 20 years younger than him, awkwardly tried to blot the light brown stain, ultimately handing him the sodden napkin mess. He gripped her hand for a moment and realized he was turning red.

"It-It's quite all right," he stammered, wiping a few stray drops. "No harm done."

Thick, arched brows accented cornflower-blue eyes. "At the very least let me buy you a drink. Coffee, tea . . ."

Or me?

Embarrassed, John said, "You don't have to."

"I insist." She smiled. It was radiant.

"All right then."

John followed her to the counter and placed his order, sneaking glances as she paid. She stood a head shorter than him, a slight wisp of a girl who still had the bloom of youth on her but who dressed like a professional businesswoman. Her tailored dress was cinched in at the waist by a red belt that coordinated with her flats and her purse. A navy blazer completed the look. But it was her eyes—big, round, and surrounded by thick lashes that made him gape.

"I'm not usually so clumsy," she began.

"No worries." John shook his head. "My name is John—John Watson."

"John-John Watson?" she teased.

Feeling his face go hot again, John laughed self-consciously. "Just John."

"I'm Elsie Patrick," she offered. "Again, I apologize. I've been pretty distracted lately. That's the only excuse I have for running into you like that."

"That's understandable." John found his voice.

"It's just some odd things have been happening," she continued, talking more to herself than to him. "Very strange things as a matter of fact."

Her tone made John study her carefully. He thought he saw a few tears well up in those remarkable eyes.

"I know it's none of my business, but what kind of strange things?"

Knitting her brow, she drummed her fingers on the counter. "Some odd things at the house. My car. The brakes gave way."

"What?" His heart beat a little faster.

"A cat darted in front of me, and when I braked, well, that's how I found out. Luckily it happened on a stretch of road that was quite flat, so I coasted to a stop. And then there is this business with the anonymous notes." She stopped abruptly when the clerk returned with John's order. "You don't want to hear about my problems."

"I work with this bloke who is a detective," John quickly volunteered. "He's very good at working out problems. If you ever need help, I'm sure he'd be happy to investigate."

Maybe "happy" was too strong of a word. Perhaps he'd be curious. John could only hope.

Elsie handed him his to-go cup of coffee. "That's very kind, I'm sure."

Their meeting almost at an end, John felt a rush of concern. Something underhanded was going on, he just knew it. Fumbling in his pocket, John pulled out one of Sherlock's cards and handed it to her.

"It's a bit soggy I'm afraid. You can contact him through that email or the website listed. I'd be there, too, when you meet him. I'm his blogger." John couldn't help but notice how lame he sounded.

Elsie studied the card for a moment and looked as if she were about to tell him something, but instead she slipped it in her red clutch. She rose up on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his mouth.

"Thank you, John-John."

She left Yelland's with a small wave back at the dazed, middle-aged man who wasn't quite sure what had just happened.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Tossing the washcloth into the sink, John was disgusted with himself. Not only had he practically been drooling over Elsie, but not once during their time together did he think of Mary. He had spent the ride over to 221B Baker Street secretly hoping Elsie would ring Sherlock and that he would see her again. Now he dreaded the thought.

She won't call, he reassured himself. No harm done. A little flirting, that's all.

Yet, the feeling that Elsie was in real danger nagged at him. Giving his head a little shake, he rejoined Sherlock in the kitchen.