DRAFT MATERIAL: NOT FOR PUBLICATION

ARTICLE TITLE: A Study In Scarlet; Cont.

AUTHOR: Jane Watson, M.D.

Quite unlike his younger brother, Mycroft is one that does exactly what I assume and expect of him even if such actions are not, by any means, appreciated. When I first had the opportunity to meet the both of them, albeit not together, I was immediately struck by the startling similarity and difference between them. For, while both exhibit the cold aloofness of men detached from emotions, only Mycroft seemed to be truly so.


Fable


The first time it happened, she regarded it as a fluke and continued on her way down the street. The second time, she paid the incident a great deal more interest. But the third time she was convinced that someone was trying to contact her.

Via telephones lining the main road.

Of course, Jane could only think of one man that would go to such ridiculous lengths in order to set up a meet. She'd often remarked that he had a flare for the dramatic—all he was missing was cape and he'd be the perfect anti-hero. But she wasn't going to stand for this obvious display of paranoia. If he wanted to talk to her, he would have to do it the normal way.

And so she limped past the red telephone booth, ignoring the phone inside. She glanced up at one of the cameras on the roof above her, and very pointedly rolled her eyes. She had hardly taken another step when a sleek black car pulled up beside her, the back window rolling down.

"Get in, Dr. Watson."

"There must be easier ways to organize a meeting," she said but she got in all the same. She glanced at the woman across from her. She was pretty, with long wavy brown hair and a low cut top. She was completely engrossed in her mobile. As usual.

"Noel."

"Jane."

And that was the end of the conversation.

When the car stopped, Jane didn't bother waiting for Noel. She knew the secretary wasn't invited to his chitchat. She got out and started her progression toward the man standing in the center of the warehouse. He wore a suit – posh, new looking – and leaning casually upon a black umbrella. As she came closer, he gave one of his detached smiles and pointed at the chair before him.

"Have a seat, Jane."

She did not sit. "You know, you could just phone me. On my phone."

"When one is avoiding he attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet—hence this place."

Jane raised an eyebrow. "Mycroft, I'm not entirely sure what you think discreet means but a black government vehicle just screams Special OPS."

Mycroft smirked. "Well, you would know, wouldn't you?"

Her gaze narrowed, her back straightening. Her posture became more regal, superior, seeming to grow in height. The change from her daily countenance was remarkable. "I thought I made it perfectly clear that I was on extended leave. For an indefinite amount of time."

"Oh, I'm not here to talk about that," Mycroft said smoothly. Her sharp eyes caught the glance toward her cane, the smallest flex of facial muscles that screamed the unsaid sentence, not this time, in any case.

"What are you doing with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I'm not with him—" She started to say before she fell short. Holmes. "Oh my god." She took a step back, staring at him.

"Oh, so you didn't know? Jane dear it seems you're slipping."

How had she missed that? She was slipping. "Funny what trauma can do to a person," she snapped, growing angry with herself. She should have realized the instant Sherlock had introduced himself. Should never had showed up at 221B Baker Street, and should have found a different flatmate. But it was too late now – she was hooked. She wanted to figure him out. Fuck.

"And what about this rumor I'm hearing?" Mycroft asked, his smirk growing wider. "Did you honestly lie about your orientation to avoid going out for coffee with someone? Or do you need to tell me something?"

Jane groaned. "Yes, Mycroft. Sorry to reveal that I am only human and can make mistakes." She ran a hand through her hair, messing up her overgrown bob of light brown. "You can't tell him."

"It is your intent to continue this little charade, then?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Please, do you really have to ask?"

"I see." Mycroft flicked his tongue, breaking eye contact her for a moment. It was almost silly she hadn't seen the connection between he and Sherlock sooner. They both boasted of superiority, flaunting their intellect and power. Only Sherlock was more childish, more okay with revealing his glee when confronted by a worthwhile puzzle whereas Mycroft remained icy and detached.

Her mobile chirped.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.

SH

"So, are we done here?" she asked, glancing up from the text.

"Not quite." Mycroft shifted his grip on the umbrella. "How are you doing?"

Jane stared at him. "My god, you almost sound like you care," she said, a tease in her voice. She knew that Mycroft had emotions, but they were different. He valued different things, thought sentiment silly.

"Come now, old friend," Mycroft sighed. "I was there—remember?"

A desert pavilion, underground base, hot wind sapping oxygen from their air and replacing it with grit and sand. Sweat, discomfort. An interrogation gone wrong, a mistake and a price. The images flashed before her eyes, panic and pain recalled to the surface of her mind.

"I remember," she whispered.

"You refuse to go to a therapist."

"Yeah, well," she cleared her throat, jerking her neck. "They're all idiots."

Mycroft smiled, "aren't they," he agreed. He sighed, "Well perhaps this arrangement will benefit both you and Sherlock."

"Perhaps."

She liked Mycroft. He didn't waste time talking about feelings. That's all therapists wanted to do. How are you feeling? And didn't help when she saw the false concern written plainly in their eyes. She was just a paycheck, a broken toy that needed repairing. She couldn't talk about how she felt. She couldn't let anyone see her mind for the twisted thing it was.

Another chirp.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

SH

"I imagine it would be complicated if he knew," he mentioned, his eyes knowing.

"For both of us," she countered. She wasn't going to let him use this as blackmail. "I won't spy on him for you."

"I didn't think so," he rocked on the balls of his feet. "But I can count on you to look after him, can't I?"

Jane looked away. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer too, it doesn't suit you."

Mycroft chuckled, "Indeed." His eyes flickered to her hand and she realized that it wasn't shaking at all. Her leg didn't even hurt.

Chirp.

Could be dangerous.

SH

"Welcome back to the war, Jane." And with a final smirk, he strode away, swinging the umbrella on his arm.


Fable


Noel took her back to the flat, but not before stopping by her hotel room and removing the semi-automatic pistol from the drawer. She'd slipped it under her shirt, the cool metal resting against her back. Protection. She felt calmer with it there. Maybe one day she would buy a gun holster to stash it under her arm.

When she reached 221B she took the stairs as fast as she was able. The pain in her leg was coming back. When she entered the room she saw something she hadn't expected.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, but that wasn't what was odd. It took her less than a second to figure out why. "What are you doing?" she shot, gesturing toward the arm he was holding. She already knew, though.

"Nicotine patch," he pulled up his sleeve slightly to give her a better view. "It helps me think. Impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London these days."

"Three?"

"It's a three-patch problem." He closed his eyes.

Jane rolled her eyes. What a letdown. She had hoped for something more exciting. "So?" she prompted when he didn't speak. "You asked me to come."

"Oh," he opened his eyes. "Right, can I borrow your phone?"

"Where's yours?"

"There's always a chance the number might be recognized, it's on my website." He held out his hand expectantly. Jane bit her lip, fighting back the swell of frustration. He was a child. She dug in her pocket and pulled it out, slapping it into his open hand. He didn't even open it, opting instead to just hold it. Jane shook her head and crossed to the window, glancing through the curtains. Mycroft's car had left.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock asked.

He would expect Mycroft to ambush her, right?

"I just met your brother."

She heard movement and turned to look behind her. Sherlock had sat up, looking at her. She folded her arms. "It wasn't a difficult leap," she justified, daring him to say otherwise. "Is he always so dramatic?"

"He usually is." Sherlock was giving her that look again. For a long moment he didn't say anything, but he never tore his gaze away from her. Jane didn't budge. What was he expecting to see? Could he see that she was lying? That she had a history with Mycroft and that her involvement in Afghanistan hadn't been strictly military, even if it had been a military operation?

She decided to speak first.

"What does he do?"

"You already know."

She smirked. "Do I?"

"Yes." He placed his hands in a steeple formation, still observing her. "You observe, but only people—facial ticks, body language?" It was a rhetorical question. "Fascinating, so while you are completely ignorant of the details that fit together in the puzzle you can still draw important conclusions just by observing people."

"And you see the whole picture, all the little details that reveal much more than a face ever could." She raised her eyebrow, at his blank expression. "Sorry, was it my turn to state the obvious?"

He smiled. "Here." He held out her phone. "I need you to text something. There's a number on the desk."

Jane nodded and took the phone, crossing to the desk. "Is his about the case?"

"Yes, a case."

"Did you find it?" She asked as she typed the number in.

Sherlock got to his feet, stepping on top of the coffee table as he crossed to the other end of the room. "Did you do it?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"Yes."

"Type this exactly: What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come." She glanced up to see him pulling a pink suitcase out from behind the armchair. "Have you done it?"

"Uh—yes," she sent the text. She looked up. He had placed the case on top of a chair, opening it and sitting beside it in the armchair, peering inside. "So, where did you kind it?"

Sherlock glanced at her as she came to sit in the chair opposite him, glancing down at the pile of clothing and toiletries. "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens," he began. "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. It wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake."

Jane nodded, eager to hear the rest.

"I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Brilliant." He gave her a double take. "Sorry," she added, hoping he didn't mistake that for flirting. She turned her attention to the case.

"Do you see what's missing?"

"Not really," she admitted, looking up and frowning.

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone?" He waved his hands as he talked. "There was no phone on the body, no phone in the case. We know she had one. That's her number there, you just texted it."

Her eyes widened. "The murderer." She didn't miss the smirk on Sherlock's face, the smugness. "You think the murderer has her phone? I just texted a serial killer?" That wasn't something one commonly heard in passing conversation. Then her mobile began to ring, the number withheld. Jane turned to it picking it up though not answering the call.

"A few hours after his last victim," Sherlock said, glancing down at it. "And now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that. But the murder—would panic," he shut the pink case with a flourish, getting to his feet once more.

"Have you told Lestrade?" Jane asked, getting to her feet too. She knew he hadn't before he opened his mouth. "Why?"

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

Jane frowned. "So, why are you talking to me?"

Sherlock had put on his coat. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull," he replied, glancing toward the mantelpiece in a forlorn sort of way. Jane looked at it too.

"So I'm just filling in for your skull?" She had not intended to sound sulky. Sherlock smirked, now wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"Relax, you're doing fine."

She shook her head, her tongue flicking the roof of her mouth.

"Well?"

"What?" she asked.

"You could just sit there and watch telly."

Jane paused. "You want me to come with you," she realized.

"I like company when I go out," Sherlock shrugged. Somehow the phrase sounded too casual. He didn't want company. He wanted her company. "And I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention so—" Jane looked away, chuckling.

"Problem?"

He couldn't ask her. Not really. He was more like his brother than she'd realized. "You enjoy this," she said grabbing her own jacket.

"And I said dangerous," he gave her a knowing look. "Yet here you are."

He led the way out of the flat. Jane winced as she descended the staircase, but didn't complain. It didn't hurt as badly as before, anyway. Outside she looked up and down the street. "Off to Northumberland, I assume?"

She wasn't exactly pleased when he ignored the cabs coming their way, opting instead to cross the street. It was at a pace she could keep up without. "It's only a five minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to go?" she asked. She would have chucked the phone immediately.

"No, I think he's brilliant enough." Okay, not her first thought. "I love the brilliant ones," he continued. "They're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?" She would assume the brilliant ones capable of never getting caught.

"Appreciation. Applause. At long last: the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Jane, it needs an audience."

She wanted to counter, not always, but something stopped her. She looked across the pavement, at the other civilians making their way through life. Sherlock needed her audience. He needed someone to appreciate his genius. She sighed, as soft, "Yeah," escaping her. How long would she last before she needed him to know just how smart she was?

"This is his hunting ground," Sherlock continued, making her unsure if he had heard her or not. He gazed around them, his head rotating as if on a swivel. "Right here, in the heart of the city. How that we know his victims were abducted, it changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go."

He paused, and Jane considered the problem. "Think!" Sherlock snapped. "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"This serial killer, apparently." Jane smirked and Sherlock shook his head.

"Apparently." He glanced up the road. "Hungry?" he didn't wait for an answer though. Jane opened her mouth, then closed it again. She wasn't hungry. They were on a mission right now. She frowned, but realized the place had a window with a full view of Northumberland Street.

Stakeout then.

Sherlock greeted the waiter by name, and Billy gestured to a table right in front of the window. Reserved. Either Sherlock had planned this ahead of time or he frequented here enough to know the owner well. She sat down with her back to the window, knowing Sherlock would prefer to sit so he could face it.

"22 Northumberland Street, keep your eye on it," he remarked, turning his gaze toward it.

"He's not just going to ring the doorbell. He'd have to be mad," she protested, rolling her eyes.

Sherlock's gaze never wavered from the window. "He has just killed four people," he reasoned.

"Right."

Jane glanced halfheartedly at the menu but she didn't intend to get anything. How could she eat when her stomach was in knots? The anticipation? A different man approached them and Jane looked up. The owner.

"Sherlock," the man said with a smile, and he shook Sherlock's hand. "Whatever you want free. On the house, for you and your date."

Jane made an odd chocking sound. "I'm not his date." Why was everyone so blind? Why didn't they use their eyes? She frowned and glared at Sherlock as he asked if she wanted to eat.

"This man got me off a murder charge," the owner went on, completely oblivious to her lack of interest.

"This is Angelo," Sherlock offered. "Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town house-breaking."

"He cleared my name!"

Sherlock tilted his head. "I cleared it a bit."

"But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison."

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

Jane didn't even bother correcting him this time. Angelo was walking away already anyway. She sighed, picked up the menu but changed her mind at once and put it back down. Instead she looked at Sherlock. Just stared at him, trying to figure him out. He didn't notice though—or maybe he didn't care. Jane glanced at Angelo as he returned with the candle, glared at his retreating back and promptly blew it out.

Sherlock didn't move. Good for her, she supposed. Let her observe him in peace. He was amazingly aware of the world and yet missed so much. A paradox. Maybe that's why she found him to fascinating.

Time to play.

"So, do you bring girls here often, then?" she asked, a smirk dancing about her mouth.

"Sorry?" Finally, he looked at her.

"I'm flattered, but I was fairly certain we sorted this all out hours ago," she continued shrugging and putting on an air of exasperation.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He looked loss for words. So he didn't bring girls here often then.

"No…" he said slowly, turning back to look out the window. She would've laughed, but that would've ruined everything.

"So, I take it no girlfriend."

"No, not really my area." Again, with the odd low trail off.

"Really? Boyfriend then?" she asked, sounding even more interested. She sat up a little straighter.

"What?" he turned sharply back to her. "No."

"It's fine." She knew he didn't. It was fun teasing him. "I can hardly judge," she shrugged.

Sherlock paused again, looking out the window for a second before clearing his throat. "Look—" he glanced at the table. "Your interest is—touching, but I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work," he elaborated.

"I know." And she smiled broadly.

He tilted his head again, looking unsure of what to make of her statement. He turned slowly back to the window and Jane sighed, slouching in her seat. This was boring. She tapped her glass of water, wondering if maybe she should order something to eat just so that she could poke it.

"We might be here awhile."

"Yup." Jane clicked her tongue. She twisted around in her seat so that she could stare out the window too, leaning her elbow on the back of the bench.

She didn't mind the silence. At times she even welcomed it. Words deceived, exaggerated, hurt. She found that people often grew uncomfortable in silences. They couldn't be with another human and not speak. The longer she refused, the more uncomfortable they grew, until they were stammering and looking for an excuse to escape. But why? When alone, people didn't talk to themselves.

To do otherwise meant madness.

She watched as a taxi pulled up the street and came to a stop.

"Jane."

"I see it." She looked back at him.

"Why a taxi?" Sherlock looked confused. "Oh, that's clever. Why is it clever?" she turned to watch the taxi. She couldn't see the occupants within. "Jane, stop staring."

"You're staring!" she protested.

"We can't both stare," he said, frowning and getting to his feet. He was going after the cab. She knew it. Without pausing to think, without really realizing it, she got to her feet and followed him out the door at a run. It would be much later, after a race through alleyways, side streets, and building roofs that she would realize. After they'd caught up to the taxi only to find a dead end, and had jogged back to the flat. She wouldn't realize it until she inside 221B Baker Street, leaning against the wall and laughing.

She wouldn't remember she'd forgotten her cane at the restaurant until Angelo was at the front door, returning it to her.

She glanced back at Sherlock, at that smug smirk on his face. This was the result of that look of calculation that she'd seen him give as she awkwardly dressed in that stupid blue jumpsuit. He'd managed to snap her mind out if it.

"Just proving a point."