Alice left for work early in the morning, signing in and heading to her cubicle. Before long, Lestrade was standing by her desk, asking her to talk to him in his office. She nodded, following him into the room. As soon as the door was closed, another man stepped out of the shadows, slightly leaning on his umbrella as he shook her hand. "Mycroft Holmes. Ms. Reilly, we have much to discuss."
"I assume you want to know about Sherlock."
"She's a bright one, Greg," Mycroft nodded to Lestrade, who silently agreed. He already knew. "As a matter of fact, yes. I would be prepared to offer you a considerable sum of money to keep an eye on him. Nothing too major, but just watch him. My brother can be rather troubled at times, which can lead him to turn to, ah, alternative methods of entertainment. He's quit smoking, but he's rather fond of other drugs, which I would rather have you watch for than that landlady of yours."
"Alright," Alice nodded, pushing her glasses up on her nose. "He seems fine to me."
Mycroft shook his head. "Just wait until he gets bored, or until something upsets him too much. He's fond of saying that he turns his emotions off in favor of his work. Well, we both know that that isn't how it works. He just likes to think so, which just makes him even more of a danger to himself."
"Okay," Alice said, looking between the two of them. "Is there anything else?"
"You're a fair bit like him. Use your abilities for good, and do not turn into my brother," Mycroft warned. "Do not make the mistake that your gifts are slowed by your humanity, but do not let them be hindered by humility. Greg will let me know about your progress, I am sure."
"With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, will he be reporting to you every night?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, Alice smiling a bit and explaining that, "WIth a marriage falling apart, no matter how desperately he tries to tape it together, there's no shame in seeing someone who could be considered your superior. Especially one who controls almost the entirety of the British government."
Lestrade stood behind his desk, asking, "Are you insinuating that…"
"I'm much more than insinuating. You're wearing the same deodorant. Now, normally that wouldn't mean much, but it's a different brand than the one you wore when you hired me. Either you've broken your pattern, or something else is up. Not to mention that the dirt on your shoes doesn't occur in your part of London. And you two have coffee cups from the same place, so you were clearly at least meeting up this morning. Besides, you looked at each other when I first brought this up. Don't worry, I won't breathe a word to anyone." Alice crossed her arms, waiting.
"Very well, then," Lestrade clapped his hands together. "Back to work."
It was midafternoon when John appeared, knocking on the side of her cubicle. Alice stopped typing away at the report she had been working on, spinning around in her chair. "Let's grab some coffee. You look like you've got something on your mind, and I'm dying to stretch my legs and get away from the computer."
As they walked, John outlined what was going on. "Sherlock's off on a case that's got him running all over London. Someone's started sending him puzzles to solve before bombs go off. You saw that story about the explosion on Baker Street a couple of days before you moved in? That had something to do with it."
"You want my help finding the bomber? I'd look for a solitary, probably young man. Most likely white, they tend to be serial killers much more than minorities. I'd say he's -"
John was shaking his head. "Actually, Sherlock's off on a case, but Mycroft, his brother, he's sent us something to investigate that Sherlock's put me in charge of. I know his methods, but, problem is, I'm a doctor. I don't investigate like he does, like you do. So I need your help."
"Not a problem." They sat outside of a cafe while John explained all about the Bruce-Partington plans and the mysterious death of Andrew West. "I'd talk to the family. Not just his fiancee. Make sure you talk to anyone who lives there, anyone who visits. You said there wasn't a lot of blood on the tracks?" she clarified as she took a sip of her coffee.
John nodded. "That's odd, isn't it? Bloke jumps in front of a train, and yet there's almost no blood? I'm heading out to take a look at the tracks myself in a little while."
"Hmm. I'd almost say he wasn't killed there. Maybe he was killed with a blunt object and dumped there, so it would look like a suicide," Alice offered, watching the traffic stream past. "I'd bet on that."
"Thanks. I'll look into it." John nodded, looking away before asking, "So what do you think of Baker Street?"
"It's perfect. Close enough to the Yard, and Mrs. Hudson's lovely. I hardly hear you at night. Sherlock… well, I block it out when he runs up and down the stairs in the middle of the night. He's civil enough. He lets me work up in your flat if he's experimenting. Says it helps to have a fresh perspective, even though he's Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes doesn't seem to do perspectives other than his own. So I sit there and write reports for Lestrade, and he experiments away. We'll say a couple of things, but as long as we don't interrupt each other's work, it works."
"That's good. We've all been saying he needs to be social. I'm glad it's with someone who can handle him."
"I just know not to put up with everything," she shrugged. "Have you been to the Wickman Gallery? Rumor has it they have a new Old Master that they're unveiling tonight. Vermeer, I think. Sorry, I just saw the advert on the side of a bus."
"I haven't gotten the chance, but Sherlock's been talking about it."
"He's an art fan?" Alice leaned back in her chair. "Maybe I'll take him with me."
"Just be prepared for his comments about everything and everyone in the gallery," John warned.
She would never get the chance. That evening, Sherlock ran past her on the stairs, bursting into his flat to find his laptop. Curious, Alice followed him upstairs, watching him type away like someone's life depended upon it. Just as she was about to ask what he was doing, her mobile phone began to ring. Alice ducked into the hall to take the call, returning a moment later to find Sherlock buttoning on his coat and grabbing his scarf. "I'll be out tonight," he told her, checking his pockets for a gun.
"So will I," she admitted with a sigh. "I've just been called in. Apparently understaffed days mean I have to come back."
"Goodnight, Alice." He pulled his scarf on, heading out of the door. "Feel free to stay here and read when you come home from work. I know you've been eyeing some of my books."
"Goodnight, Sherlock." She watched him tromp down the stairs, but raced after the detective to grab his arm. "Sherlock?" He raised an eyebrow, as if to say, 'What? You're making me late.' Alice bit her lip, but decided to tell him, "Sherlock, be careful, okay?"
He and John returned home in the middle of the night, quite shaken. Alice was sitting in Sherlock's armchair, reading one of the old volumes of criminal studies in the early 1880s that he had collected. Chester, her corgi, slept at her feet. She put her glasses back on, looking between them. "What happened to you two? You look like you've seen a ghost, John. Here, I'm going to make tea. Then you two owe me an explanation."