Āine wiped tables, served customers and always kept one eye on the door of 221B. Working for Mrs Hudson in her cafe was ok, but the real money was in surveillance, surveillance of Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes she just notified her boss of when he left and who entered, but occasionally she got to meet the man when she was running earns for Mrs Hudson or when the bumped into each other outside the cafe. If you asked Āine, not that anyone did, she'd say the man was a nutcase. Strange experiments, a delight in death and a tendency to shoot the wall gave you that impression of the man. Though she did think he was hot, in a weird, psychopathic way. So Āine endured. The money was good for a small after-school and weekend job. She'd bought herself a flashy watch and had put plenty of money in her uni fund; money she wouldn't have had before. So maybe the work was slightly fishy, Āine was only the messenger, and no one really shoots the messenger. But now there was this Adler-Holmes girl, she was interesting. Āine couldn't see Sherlock as the sort of guy with a mysterious kid, he seemed quite uninterested in women; though his razor sharp cheekbones meant women were very interested in him. Āine smiled to herself then quickly pulled herself together. A text blinged in on her phone. 'How old is this Adler-Holmes?' It read, cold and concise. Number withheld. Āine had never actually met her boss, she'd met some of his people and she'd texted him, but she'd never met him. Running into the loo, so as not to be disturbed, she typed in a quick: 'About fifteen.' Illusive texts like this one came in all the time, simple questions like 'Where is he?' 'Who is his client?' or 'Is Watson with him?' Āine just answered and didn't answer questions. So that was that. Āine went back to wiping tables and fetching coffee, oblivious the joy her text had brought to a lonely little boy. "Oh yes! Yes!" Tom danced around the living room, "It all fits!" His sister lounged in a chair watching him jump up and down with excitement, she was pretending to be bored. "Fifteen years! Fifteen years! Fifteen years since Irene Adler was 'killed'." "Yay," Ruby droned, "and that means..." "She can be his daughter." Tom was smiling as wide as his as his face would allow. "So..." Ruby was very lost. "Would you mind finishing your sentences?" Tom snapped back, "It means we can use her against him." "But they've only just met. For all we know, he could kick her out. Or Miss Thomas could be mistaken, or lying. Anyway, how can we know she'd be a weakness?" Ruby couldn't dare to hope. "They're flesh and blood - she's a weakness. Maybe not yet but soon she will be. She will be."
