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He shut himself away the whole afternoon, leaving me to eat dinner alone, in the sitting room, while an evening rain pattered down the windows. I had gone to bed without seeing him, without expecting to see him, but now I was roused from my sleep by the sound of his violin.

It wasn't a composition I recognized, but it was low and sorrowful, and a touch angry. I crept out of bed and stood at my door, listening. I was moved, it was beautiful… I pressed an ear against the door to hear better, and the music suddenly stopped.

"You can come out, Watson," was the sarcastic drawl.

Caught. Oh well. I turned the handle and opened the door to the sitting room, straining to see him in the utter darkness. He was slouched in an armchair, and he reached out and turned on the table lamp, which I had restored to its rightful place only this afternoon. He sat back in the chair and fingered his violin softly, making the strings give little sighs of music.

"Well, what is it, Watson?"

I shook my head. "Nothing. You play beautifully, is all."

Holmes harrumphed. "You knew that already."

"I did." I sat in the other armchair. "But remembering something beautiful and hearing it again aren't quite the same thing."

Holmes shot me a suspicious glance, as if I'd said something inappropriate.

"Oh, come off it, Holmes." I snapped. "I'm tired of suspicious glances and… and the way you stiffen up around me. I know full well we had a history, but we were kids, for chrissake. I've been with other people since then, and I'll wager you have too. And now I'm engaged. He's a good man, Holmes, and I love him very much. And I didn't come back to London for you. So you can get off your high horse and play." I leaned back and closed my eyes, my heart thudding at my own daring. The clock downstairs clicked the seconds – one, two, three, four – before Holmes broke the silence.

"Any requests?"

"Meditations from Thais."

Holmes began to play. I sighed. He did play beautifully. This was my favorite…

I began to relax, and my heart rate slowed. The music was soothing, and I fell asleep in the chair, waking to the morning to the sun shining in on me. I stood, and discovered a horrific crick in my neck. I glanced at the clock and was relieved that I hadn't missed my appointment at the consulate. Holmes entered the sitting room, adjusting a button down shirt, a tie haphazardly around his neck.

"Wouldn't have let you miss it," he said, following my gaze to the clock. "Get dressed, I'm coming with you."

"Why? You're not American."

"No, but I do know the undersecretary, and he'll be able to straighten everything out." He stuffed a piece of yesterday's dinner, still on the table, into his mouth. "We'll have him open an investigation into the cabbie." He tied his necktie, seemingly carelessly. "Get a shower, you look hung over."

I snorted in indignation, but went to do as he said. While I was gone, Mrs. Hudson brought the breakfast tray and I sat for some toast and tea before we left. Holmes took a jacket from the coat rack next to the door, which surprised me, given the midmorning summer heat. We hailed a cab at the door, and Holmes sent the first two on their way with a quick apology, before opening the door of the third for me.

I slid in, my brand new dress pants slick against the taxi cab seats. Holmes got in beside me, and asked the cabbie to take us to the embassy. Then he leaned back, arms across the back of the seat, and closed his eyes, humming under his breath.

I glanced at him, and noticed something bulky in his jacket pocket. Curious, I reached across the seat and pressed a palm against the hard shape.

Holmes' hand snapped around my wrist and jerked me back, but not before I had felt the distinctive outline of a gun. "Are you nuts?" I hissed.

"Don't make a scene," he said softly, his eyes narrowing.

"You'll get us both arrested."

"It's licensed."

"You can't take that into the embassy."

Holmes threw my arm away. "Actually, I can."

I slid as far away from him as I could and stared out the window, trying to hide my suddenly pale face. I damn well hoped he knew what he was doing. The rest of the taxi cab ride was silent, and when we arrived I let myself out, without waiting for Holmes to open the door for me. The sunlight was hot on the top of my head, and I shielded my eyes to gaze at the embassy – which was square, many windowed, and featured a prominent bald eagle atop its otherwise plain front. Holmes paid the cabbie, checked his jacket pockets (for his gun, I realized with a shudder), and then nodded to me that we could go in.

There was a secretary at a desk, in the middle of a tiled, circular antechamber. She greeted us, and Holmes handed her a card. "Yes, Mr. Atwater is expecting you. Just a moment." She pushed a button and spoke into her headset. "Sherlock Holmes here to see you, sir." Her eyes refocused on us. "He'll be right down."

It was only another minute before a well dressed elderly man appeared from a staircase at the far end of the antechamber, and came forward to meet us. "Aaron Atwater, pleased to meet you, Miss Watson. Good to see you again, Mr. Holmes." He shook both our hands. "I've arranged a private meeting room, we'll get you all straightened out."

Applying for a replacement visa and passport was easier than I expected. We were seated before an elaborate mahogany table, and Mr. Atwater produced several papers for me to sign. The paperwork was already filled out with my name, birthday, and other information. Suddenly apprehensive, I looked up at Mr. Atwater.

"I was expecting more trouble than this," I said.

Mr. Atwater's cheerful face drooped slightly. "We know who you are, Miss Watson. The embassy was alerted when you first made your travel plans."

I blushed. "Oh."

After a half-dozen signatures, I was ushered away to be photographed, fingerprinted, and then stood waiting while an enormous and dangerous looking copier slowly churned out my new visa, then my passport. They were handed to me and I opened them, enjoying the holographic eagles and flags I could make appear by tilting them in the light.

"All set?" Mr. Atwater asked.

"Yes, thank you."

"Now," he said, glancing between Holmes and I. "I've arranged an interview with Scotland Yard as well as an FBI representative. If you're prepared to give a statement…"

I had a sudden flashback. I was in the cold, dark interrogation room, rocking back and forth to the sound of my own sobbing. The detective repeated the question "Are you prepared to give a statement?"

"Yes!" The sob burst out of me. "It was my father, it was all my father!"

In the present day, I shook my head, to clear it of demons. "Yes," quietly, "I'm ready."

We returned to the conference room, and Holmes pulled a chair out for me to sit. I was torn between gratitude for his consideration and irritation at the old-fashioned gesture. We were all poured water, and then the two detectives on the other side of the table asked me for my story.

So I told them – of my decision to come to medical school in England, which was largely financial. I told them of the cabbie that had attempted to abduct me, in as much detail as I could. I told them of the pub, and the people's reaction. I then glossed over Holmes' role, saying that I decided to look up Holmes, my only friend in London.

I finished my narrative, and the detectives asked a few clarifying questions. And then, the man from Scotland Yard cleared his throat. "I'll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Atwater, Mr. Holmes."

They stood, and I felt a panic rise. Despite the lush surroundings of the embassy, I had no desire to repeat my Scotland Yard experience of seven years ago. I tried to meet Holmes' eyes as he left, but he avoided my gaze. I turned back to the two detectives.

"When is the last time you spoke to your father?"

"I haven't… not since the trial."

"No phone calls? No letters?"

I hesitated. "There was a letter. Once. On my eighteenth birthday."

The detective nodded slightly and I had the suspicion he already knew that. "What did it say?"

"Angry nonsense mostly. Claims that he was innocent. And he told me to take care of my mother. That's about all."

"Where is that letter now?"

"I… I don't know. I think I threw it away."

"Do you have any plans to visit your father?"

"No." I looked down and my hands, shamed. "No."

"You shouldn't lie to us," the Scotland Yard detective said.

"I'm not!"

"You came back to England to be near your father. Why?"

"I didn't! I came for medical school!"

"Why not the states?"

"Too expensive."

"So, you have access to funds here?"

"No! I took out student loans."

"We know you met with your father's broker – Alan Tinsdale."

"I've never even heard of him." I started to sweat, a little nervous. "I've not met with anyone, except Holmes."

"There were no witnesses to your taxi cab accident. We've seen the airport footage, the cab driver behaved normally."

"He tried to kill me!" I shouted. "He tried to kill me and you're saying, that, that I made it all up?"

"No one's saying that, Miss Watson, we're just trying to explore all angles." The detectives closed their notebooks, one after another. "You can go now. We'll open an investigation, and keep you informed. Can you be reached at the Baker street address?"

"Yes. I… uh, thank you." I tore from the room, brushed past Holmes waiting in the hallway, and thundered down the stairs into the atrium and then into the summer sunshine. Holmes followed at a clip.

I strode down the street, not caring where I was going. "You left me!" I hissed through clenched teeth. "You left me in there while tweedle dee and tweedle dum accused me of lying, accused me of working with my father."

Holmes kept up with me easily. "Of course they did – to gauge your reaction. Which is apparently shame and agitation. Stop crying."

"I am not crying." I wiped a hand across my eyes.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't care."

Holmes fell into step beside him, without comment, seemingly content to let me walk aimlessly. Eventually my paced slowed, and I found myself in the bustling downtown.

"Flower for the lady?" A street vendor shoved a rose in my face.

"No, thank you." I shifted away and continued walking. The vendor followed me. "Best rose in England, miss. From someone special it is."

"I said no thank you."

"Just a moment," Holmes cut in. "I think we will take one."

"A pound, sir."

Holmes paid him, and the vendor handed the rose to me. I took it gingerly, suspiciously.

"Wait a minute, you've got change," the vendor said, although Holmes had clearly paid him with a one pound note. Holmes took the folded bill, and the vendor shuffled off. Holmes unfolded the cash the vendor had given him, to reveal a white note-card. In handwritten pencil it said I KNOW YOU ARE IN LONDON. TAKE EVERY PRECAUSION.

"Oh, God," I said.

"Do you recognize the handwriting?"

"No. But it has to be my father, doesn't it? Who else cares that I'm here?"

Holmes flipped the card over, held it to the light, smelt it, rubbed it between his fingers. "Highly uninformative. Clearly store bought."

I was turning around in circles, expecting to be attacked. "Oh God, he's going to kill me?"

"Calm down, you look spastic."

"Calm down? I – "

"This isn't a threat Watson. It's a warning. Perhaps someone is trying to protect you."

"Oh very well then," I snapped, sarcastic. "Fancy a cup of tea?"

"Yes." Tucking the card in a jacket pocket, he walked a couple of paces down the street and into a café. For a moment I toyed with the idea of leaving him, hailing a cab and making my own way back to Baker street. But perhaps it was best not to antagonize him. I threw the rose in a nearby trash bin and went to join him.