A/N: new chappie! enjoy!

Chapter 4: Call from a Kidnapper

"Quennel!"

She, Sherlock and John turned to be approached by a man with a headset on his head, a smile on his face.

"Hello Adam," Quennel smiled when he stopped.

"Who are your friends here?" he smiled.

"Oh, they're…my cousins," Quennel lied, hesitantly as Sherlock and John remained silent. "Sherlock, John, this is one of our producers, Adam Connolly."

"Pleasure," Adam smiled again, shaking a hand on each man. "Was that why you called in, Quennel?"

She nodded, then said, "I was just showing them where I work then we're heading out to grab a bite for dinner."

"Sounds smashing," Adam smiled then quickly added, "Have you seen Deirdra? I've been trying to get a hold of her all day, but she's not answering her mobile."

"Oh…she said she wasn't feeling all that well today," Quennel lied once more. "Something about food poisoning I think. I took some groceries to her a little earlier and she said she hadn't left the toilet all day."

Adam shuddered and glanced away in thought as Quennel gave a silent sigh of relief that he had believed her.

"Well, tell her I hope she feels better," he nodded back at her then waved as he turned to leave, "Nice to meet you two!"

John gave a courteous wave before Adam turned away completely and Quennel gave another sigh before waving them on to follow her.

"For not being a very good liar, you sure fooled him pretty easily," John noticed, he and Sherlock following her through the studio.

"That's because he's as gullible as a new born pup," she muttered, turning into a corridor and stopping at one of the doors. "This is Deirdra's dressing room."

She pushed the door open only to find something blocking it from opening all the way. She frowned at the door and Sherlock gently moved her away to shove his head through the door and look around the room. It was completely thrown, like Deirdra's bedroom in her flat. He looked to the base of the door to find her chair blocking it from completely opening and leaned down to move it out of the way so that he could open the door enough to slip himself into the room.

"What's blocking it?" Quennel frowned, watching him struggle but he managed to move the chair and get in.

"The chair," he grumbled from inside, looking around at the mess and Quennel peeked inside but didn't attempt to enter. She gave a gasp and her hands flew to her mouth in shock as her eyes darted around the room. John peeked in as well and frowned in wonder.

"Just like the flat," John recalled as Quennel turned away and Sherlock began rummaging through the papers. "Someone was obviously looking for something."

"Either that or they wanted us to think they were looking for something," Sherlock theorized, picking up a piece of paper and frowning at it as he read it. "What was that man's name?"

"What man?" John frowned.

"That producer we just met," Sherlock replied.

"Adam," Quennel replied, sniffling and hugging herself, catching John's attention and he reached out to set a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Adam Connolly. What's he got to do with this?"

"There's a piece of paper on the floor with his name on it," Sherlock replied. "It's torn in half, rather viciously."

"We all have papers with his name on it," Quennel replied. "There're probably tons of papers with his name on it in my dressing room. It's of little consequence."

"This one's hand written," Sherlock replied. "And it says love, Adam."

"What?" Quennel breathed and leaned over to thrust her hand through the gap. "Let me see it!"

When she felt the paper in her hand she yanked it back and her eyes darted across the torn page. She frowned in utter confusion then poked her head as Sherlock continued searching the room.

"Where's the other half?" she asked and Sherlock looked around at the papers all around him.

Recalling the handwriting from the piece Quennel had, he scanned over the papers and finally leaned down to pick up another piece and handed it to her. Quennel placed the top half over the bottom, reading the entire letter, John looking over her shoulder.

"A love letter," John realized as Quennel shook her head in disbelief but said nothing.

"From Adam to Deirdra," Sherlock called, hearing his friend as he looked through the drawers of the vanity against the wall.

"They couldn't have been dating!" Quennel breathed in disbelief. "Deirdra would've…told me."

"Well, apparently she didn't," Sherlock replied from inside the room, leaning down and picking up a book bag to gather the papers into it.

"Sherlock?" John called, watching him with a frown through the gap.

"I'll need to examine all of these papers when we get back to the flat," he explained. "I'll need your help as well, Miss Yule."

"For what?" Quennel wondered, still looking at the letter.

"I'll need you to help organize these papers for me."

221B Baker...

"They're all notes on the story," Quennel noticed, going through the papers Sherlock had sprawled out over his desk. "There's nothing else."

"Other than this love letter," Sherlock corrected, holding the torn pieces up side by side. "The only thing that's been torn, I might add."

"You think the kidnapper might have found what he was looking for?" John asked, heading toward them with two plates of take away in his hands.

"I think she might have," Sherlock mused as Quennel still went through the papers, not looking to John when he placed a plate next to her but she thanked him.

"Still convinced this was done by a woman?" John guessed, taking a seat with his plate and leaning over to look at the papers as well.

"Still," Sherlock replied, vaguely as he lowered the papers in his hands. "Did Adam have any other women in his life before Deirdra?"

"He's too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell," Quennel replied, not looking at him. "That was half the reason I never knew about he and Deirdra."

"And the other half?" Sherlock asked, starting to look through the papers as well.

"Deirdra didn't tell me," she muttered, then frowned as she lifted another paper. "Sherlock, look at this."

He looked to her just as she handed him a paper, catching John's attention as well. Sherlock took the paper to examine it as Quennel stepped next to him to read over his shoulder, John doing the same as he set his food aside.

"It looks like a list," John noticed.

"That it does," Sherlock agreed, frowning in thought as he tried to read it. "A coded list."

"It's no code," Quennel corrected, causing both men to look at her as she took the paper to look at it a little closer. "It's Dee's style of short hand. She uses symbols instead of words."

"Can you read it?" Sherlock wondered and Quennel nodded.

"This first one says she needs to book our flight to Iraq," she began, leaning next to Sherlock and setting the paper on the desk for all of them to see as she slid a finger down the list. "The next one says she needs to get her gun permit. The third says she needs to get her gun. The fourth one says…" She frowned in wonder and the men looked from the paper to frown at her as well before she continued, "…mess."

"What does that mean?" John wondered.

"I don't know," Quennel admitted, still looking at the page as Sherlock looked back to it as well. "But the next one says note…I don't get this. It doesn't make any sense."

"Well, there's only one thing left to do," Sherlock sighed, standing to head toward the kitchen as Quennel and John frowned at him.

"And…what's that, Mr. Holmes?" Quennel wondered, standing and turning to face him, crossing her arms as she leaned back on the desk.

"Wait for Saturday," he replied, looking through his cupboards then looking around on the table.

Quennel and John frowned at each other before they both headed toward him to stand in the threshold of the kitchen and watch him.

"Wait?" Quennel echoed with a frown as he still bustled about the kitchen. "Aren't we supposed to go find her?"

"She's in no danger," Sherlock replied. "The kidnapper won't hurt her. Besides, you need to gather that money for her ransom."

"We're complying with the kidnapper?" John inquired. "I'm sure it gets Miss Radcliff back safely, but is that the smartest move, Sherlock?"

"We'll find out, won't we, John?" Sherlock replied, not looking up from what he'd found on the table and examining it.

"There's just one problem with your brilliantly reckless plan, Mr. Holmes," Quennel shot back, making the man shoot his eyes to her. "I don't have 50,000 pounds on hand at the moment."

"Ah," Sherlock smiled, confidently for the first time since they'd met. "Lucky for us, I know a man with 50,000 to spare."

Quennel stared at him as he lifted a hand toward them, turning back to what he was examining on the table.

"One of you, let me use your mobile," he ordered, beckoning with a flick of his fingers that they obey him.

"You could say please, Sherlock," John shot back, digging into his pocket for his phone, but Quennel lifted a hand to stop him, reaching for her own phone and stepping toward Sherlock.

She lifted the phone and placed it in his hand, but when he pulled it toward him, she stepped closer, not letting the phone go either. Noticing the slight resistance he looked up with a frown, both of them still holding the phone as Quennel stood right next to him with a small smirk.

"I didn't think you had it in you, Sherlock," she murmured, making his frown deepen in question. "That was the first time you've smiled since we met."

"Yes," he replied, glancing at his work on the table but turning a frown back to her when she still didn't release her phone. "Was there something else utterly obvious that you wanted to point out?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all," she shrugged, finally letting go of her phone and watching him stand tall to text someone. "The Great Sherlock Holmes can smile."

"Yes, I've been known to do it on occasion," Sherlock retorted, not looking away from the phone for another moment before handing it back to her and she took it as he leaned over the table again. "Money problem solved. You can go about your business now."

"Not quite," Quennel corrected, looking at her phone. "Who did you text?"

"No one," Sherlock blurted.

"His brother," John guessed, making Sherlock roll his eyes and head dramatically before looking to John irritably.

"Must you give away everything?" he questioned, making John smirk as Quennel frowned at Sherlock.

"You have a brother?" she asked. "Why didn't I find it in my research?"

"Because he works for the government," John replied again, making Sherlock slam his hand onto the table and stand tall.

"Blast it all, John! What did I just say?" he snapped then sighed, "Does no one listen to me?"

Quennel's phone suddenly buzzed and she looked at it, frowning at the ID before opening the message and reading aloud, "It's done."

"There," Sherlock nodded, stepping around her to head into the living room again. "All fixed."

"But…how—?"

"I assured him that he'd get his money back in full," he called, rummaging through the sofa cushions as Quennel and John watched him.

"And exactly how are you going to do that, Sherlock?" John asked, skeptically.

"Well the kidnapper won't keep it," Sherlock replied, vaguely, still rummaging through the sofa and making his companions frown in utter confusion.

"Alright, I can't take it anymore," Quennel stated, putting her phone away. "What in the bloody hell are you looking for?"

"A pen," Sherlock replied, deftly as he still searched. "Ah! Here it is!"

He held up said pen then turned to the two and marched back into the kitchen, making the two frown again and head after him.

"You'll want to keep your phone out, Quennel," he advised as she stepped next to him and he started writing on the piece of paper he'd pulled from the pile on the table.

"Why—?"

She jumped when the thing buzzed in her hand with a restricted number on the ID and John hurried to the other side of her.

"That'll be the kidnapper," Sherlock explained making the two look up at him with wide eyes as he still wrote. Noticing they were staring at him he looked up and snapped, "Well don't just sit there! Answer it!"

Quennel shook her shock away and looked to the phone, quickly answering it and putting it up to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Is this Quennel Yule?" an obviously digitally altered voice replied, making Quennel swallow and look to Sherlock.

"Speaker," he mouthed, waving toward her and she put the phone on the speaker setting before answering.

"Yes, this is Miss Yule," she replied, shakily. "Who is this?"

Sherlock nodded in approval as he still wrote.

"I'm the one who has your friend," the voice replied and Quennel felt her heart nearly stop as Sherlock held up a piece of paper for her to read.

She frowned at it before reading, "Is…she alright?"

"Of course she is," the kidnapper replied and Sherlock pulled the paper back to write more. "I told you I wouldn't harm her. I only want my money."

"I'll get your money," Quennel assured, stalling a bit for Sherlock before he held the paper up again and she read, "But…I need to know that Deirdra's alright first. Let me talk to her, please?"

There was a long pause and Quennel thought that perhaps the kidnapper wouldn't allow it, but what she heard next made her heart jump.

"Quennel?" Deirdra called in a shaky voice and Quennel sighed in relief as Sherlock went back to writing.

"Dee! It's me! I'm here! I'm working for you, deary!" She was on the verge of tears of joy, knowing her friend was unharmed.

"Just give them what they want, Quennel! Don't do anything stupid—!"

"Deirdra?" Quennel called, hearing her friend disappear.

"You have until Saturday," the kidnapper came on again as Sherlock started writing again and held up the paper for Quennel to read.

"Wait!" she called, catching what was on the paper. "W-Why are you doing this? Is it…because of Deirdra's affair with Adam?"

There was a long pause, and Quennel thought he'd hung up, but sighed inwardly when the kidnapper replied, "How do you know about that?"

"I found a love letter left in her dressing room," Quennel replied as Sherlock quickly wrote something else then held it up. "It was torn in half."

"My reasons are none of your concern," the kidnapper snapped, making Sherlock give a smirk before turning back to the paper to write more. "All you need do is bring the money to Westminster Bridge at the designated time."

"But I have to know why you're doing this!" Quennel cried into the phone, her emotions starting to get the better of her. Sherlock looked up at her as John shook his head at him, signaling she was losing it. "What do you want with her? What did she ever do to you?"

"Why don't you ask your beloved Sherlock Holmes about it?" the voice retorted, causing all eyes to shoot to Sherlock who looked to the phone. "I know you've acquired his services to find me. You would go to such great lengths to help Miss Radcliff. She assured it."

"If you know, then why not turn yourself in," Sherlock suddenly piped up, Quennel too shocked to speak as he stepped next to her to speak clearer into the phone. "You know I'll succeed."

"We'll see, Mr. Holmes," the kidnapper replied. "We shall certainly see if your genius is what they say it is."

A click on the line signaled the kidnapper had hung up and Quennel was brought back by the soft sound. She looked to the phone then back at Sherlock, tears coming to her eyes as he looked back at her, expressionless.

"Sherlock," she breathed. "What now?"

"There's nothing to do but wait," he replied, stepping around her to stand with John. "Let me see your phone."

John said nothing as he pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it over. Sherlock tapped something into it before handing it back, Quennel ignoring them to sit at the cluttered table.

"Go to this address," Sherlock ordered John, handing his phone back. "Mycroft will have a man waiting for you with a silver briefcase. You're going to trade something for it."

"Trade?" John frowned in wonder, looking at his phone as Sherlock went back to the table and plucked a flash drive from the mess, stepping back to John and handing it to him. "What's this?"

"Information he'd wanted me to look up for him," Sherlock replied. "He won't wait long, you'd better go."

John nodded and stepped around Sherlock to stand next to Quennel, setting a hand on her shoulder as she looked up at him.

"Are you alright?" he murmured and she nodded slightly before looking back at her lap as she had been before.

"John, there's no time to lose," Sherlock called from where he was standing.

John gave Quennel's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning to head toward the door, calling out that he'd be back soon. When the door shut, Sherlock turned to the living room with a tired sigh and flopped back onto the couch. Quennel stared at her phone for a moment before she stood and strolled into the threshold of the kitchen, staring at Sherlock as he kept his hands folded over his stomach, his eyes closed.

Quennel glanced around and noticed her plate of food John had left for her earlier, suddenly feeling hungry. She stepped toward the desk to pick up the plate and start eating as she sat in John's usual chair. Sherlock heard her shuffling and opened one eye to look at her before closing his eyes again and shifting to be more comfortable on the couch.

Catching the action, Quennel glancing up at him and asked, "Did you want some of the take-away John and I bought earlier?"

"No," he blurted. "Eating slows me down."

"Well, you're not going anywhere for a few days," she replied. "You should eat."

Sherlock peeked at her again and stared at her for a moment before lifting a hand and waving it off, saying, "Fine. You can heat something up for me."

Quennel couldn't help but scoff before lifting the plate John had left and stepping toward him to hand it to him. He remained still for a moment before Quennel cleared her throat and he frowned before opening his eyes and sitting up to take the plate.

"That was quick," he noticed as she sat next to him. "John won't be very happy."

"Well, it's either you eat it or it goes cold again," she retorted, shifting to sit comfortably next to him. "Then we'd have to throw it away and it would be a waste."

Sherlock said nothing as he began eating and Quennel only smirked at him before starting at her own food. They were silent for a moment before she glanced at him and couldn't contain herself any longer.

"You're a handsome man, Sherlock Holmes," she began, breaking the silence and making Sherlock look to her. He could hear it in her tone that there was more to that comment and waited. "So it's curious that you wouldn't have a crowd of women trailing after you."

"Women aren't really my area," Sherlock replied, simply as he turned back to his food.

"Oh, so…John's your domestic partner, then?" she guessed hesitantly, taking a bite or her food.

"No," he answered, not looking at her and she gave a nod with a slight smirk as she looked to her food. "He's a friend. His room is upstairs."

"Alright, I believe you," she smirked. "No need to try so hard to sell it, Sherlock. Married to your work, then?"

"Exactly," he nodded.

"Pity," she muttered, drawing his attention to her but she ignored him. "Handsome man like you would produce handsome little Sherlocks."

He stared at her for a moment longer before turning back to his food and finished it off before setting it on the desk and standing to head toward one of the chairs in front of the fireplace where a violin sat. He lifted it and in one, fluid motion, brought it up to tuck it under his chin, lifting the bow in his other hand to the strings. The melody of Fur Elise suddenly broke the silence, and Quennel couldn't help but stare at Sherlock as he played. He was so focused and uninhibited that she was entranced by it.

Sherlock held the last note as long as the bow would allow him before lifting it from the strings as he looked back at her, their gazes meeting before noticing, "You have a question for me?"

Quennel frowned at him in wonder before silently supposing she did and smiled at his always keen senses.

"More of a request," she realized as he set his violin on one of the armchairs and strolled toward the kitchen. She only watched him as she called, "Tell me."

"What do you mean?" he replied, searching the cluttered table for something.

"Sherlock," she called, standing and heading toward the kitchen as well to lean on the doorway frame, crossing her arms. "You've obviously figured it out already. Tell me what you know."

He stopped and looked at her, examining her. Most people would've fidgeted nervously under his scrutinizing gaze, but she knew she was being examined, yet she stood silently, expectantly, waiting for his answer.

"You're not ready for my conclusion yet," he replied, turning to the fridge to open it and look inside, Quennel remaining in her spot.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" she retorted, unmoving.

"You're too devoted," he answered without hesitation, sailing from the fridge and back to the table with a jar. "Too loyal. You'd never believe it. You'll have to see it with your own eyes." He opened the jar effortlessly. "So, we'll wait until Saturday to prove my conclusion right."

"Wait?"

"Wait."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"What if something goes wrong?"

"It won't."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock sighed and turned to her with a bored stare and she shot back with a look as well, arching a brow at him, expectantly.

"Nothing will go wrong," he insisted, turning back to whatever he was doing, his back to her.

"I hope so, Mr. Holmes," she retorted, shoving off the doorway to turn and stroll back to the living room. "I really hope so."

A/N: reviews?