Chapter 2 – Agreements

That same morning found Elizabeth Warren slowly patrolling down a street of cute modern row homes in a neighbourhood called Cavendish Place, presumably referencing the locale in Brighton. She stopped in front of #4 and glanced down at the address she had scribbled on a scrap piece of paper in her slightly sweaty hand. It was quite a warm day for May and Elizabeth found she had no need for the fitted black blazer she was wearing.

This was it – the address that Arthur had given her earlier this morning. Looking up again, Elizabeth took a deep breath to try and calm her nerves. Her insides felt like a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap against her will at any moment. Everything depended on this man agreeing to help her write the story that had become a permanent fixture in her mind since glancing at those articles. Her only problem was, this man was more likely to slam the door in her face than even talk to her. She'd have to play this out very carefully.

Taking another deep breath and tucking her file of notes tightly underneath her arm, Elizabeth quickly ascended the steps and rang the doorbell. After a few moments of nothing, she soon began doubting herself. 'I didn't even bother to think he might not be at home! Is this even the right address?' She didn't get to worry much further before the door finally opened and a woman with short blonde hair and a bright smile on her face answered. Elizabeth's heart sunk; so this was the wrong address…

"Hullo! Can I help you?" the woman asked curiously.

Momentarily forgetting how to speak intelligently, Elizabeth stammered out, "Ehhhh… y-yes. Is there a John Watson here? I was hoping that I might speak with him…"

The woman nodded, still smiling. "Yeah. Let me call him down. Wait just a sec." Elizabeth's spirits rose from the ashes like a phoenix as the woman turned around and yelled up the stairwell to the flat above. "John? There's someone at the door who wants to talk to you."

"If it's another journalist wanting to do a story, tell them to 'Piss off!'" a male voice echoed back.

Smirking, the woman retaliated, "You're going to have to find that out for yourself; I'm taking a shower." She turned back to Elizabeth, "He'll be right down. I'm Mary, by the way; if you need anything, I'll be upstairs." With a wink, she was gone. Elizabeth frowned. Did she somehow know why she was here? What a peculiar woman.

Not a moment later came the telltale sound of male footfalls down the steps and soon enough the army doctor himself was peering out the door at Elizabeth suspiciously. The man had the beginnings of a mustache forming on his upper lip. While he looked to be in considerably better spirits than the photographs that depicted him right after Sherlock's death, his eyes held a certain sadness to them. "Who are you? And what do you want?" he asked shortly.

"Doctor Watson; it truly is a pleasure to meet you," Elizabeth replied, still thoroughly flustered from her strange encounter with Mary, but hiding it well behind a mask of confidence. "My name is Elizabeth Warren; I'm an investigative journalist for The London Herald." A number of expressions flitted across the doctor's face, but the predominant one was anger. He made to slam the door in Elizabeth's face, but Elizabeth cried out, "Doctor Watson! Please!" She guessed she sounded desperate enough, for John paused in closing the door, and looked at her with a hard expression on his face. "Look, I know you're not the media's biggest fan right now, and I can't blame you, but before you slam that door in my face I'd really like to talk to you."

"Talk to me? What? So you can write some piss pot story about how Sh—about how my best friend was a fraud?"

"What!? No!" Elizabeth responded earnestly, eyes wide. "God no! Mr. Watson, I know this a bit late, but I want to clear Sherlock Holmes' name."

"You know you people know no – I'm sorry, what did you say?" John cut himself off from what was sure to be an insult as what Elizabeth said sunk in. "I'm sorry. You said you want to clear Sherlock's name? Why would you want to do that? So you can make a name for yourself like whatshername did?"

Elizabeth had to smile at that. "Doctor Watson, I usually try and maintain at least some sense of humility, but I can assure you that I have no need to 'make a name for myself,' as you so aptly put it. I'm the lead writer in the crime department at The Herald, but I'm not here on behalf of the paper."

"You're not?"

"No. I'm here because I want to be, and because I know that maybe, just maybe, with your help, we can clear Sherlock's name once and for all – prove to the world that he's not the fraud that Kitty Riley made him out to be," Elizabeth looked at him pleadingly. This was the part where she laid out her proposal. If he agreed to this, then she was almost positive that she could get him to agree to help her. "I passed a café on the way here. Let me treat you to some tea or coffee…" She looked at John's weary face. "… or maybe something a little stronger." A faint smile tugged at the corners of the military man's lips. "I want to tell you a little story, and if you like it, then, maybe you'll decide to help me. If you don't, well, we can part ways and we'll likely never see each other again, and if you want, we can come back here and you can slam the door in my face." A full on chuckle – yes. "So what do you say? Can I at least interest you in a drink and some conversation?"

"Okay, but only because I could use a stiff drink." There was no hesitation in his voice, and if Elizabeth didn't know any better, she'd say this was all a trick of her imagination.

"Okay?" she questioned dubiously.

John gave a brief smile. "Okay. But I'm agreeing to nothing until you've at least fulfilled your end of the bargain. Agreed?"

Elizabeth smiled brightly. "Agreed."