Happy Holidays!

Special thanks to hannahhobnob, Le Pleiade, LookAliveSunshine03, JobanaBallack, DoctorGiggelstheMouse, bored411, 221BluePoliceBox and Jeralee (who went through every chapter) you guys all rock!

Disclaimer: I only own any OC's and original plot idea's you don't recognize.

The days had progressed into the next week. Utter silence continued from the case since the toxicology report had come back from Molly, leaving Sherlock to mull over another degree to the murders. He had started with seven theories and was down to just three after what the reports had exposed in a significant detail. The drug in the prostitutes system, and likely through the homeless victim (while they waited for that report) was Diprivan. Also known as propofol, a hypnotic or anaesthetic drug given through an intravenous. Surprising it was a rather weak drug, more used in small procedures in the medical field to obtain partial or complete unconsciousness for a brief period of time, also reducing sensitivity to pain. John referred to it as conscious sedation. The women only had to be unconscious long enough for the killer to asphyxiate his victims, and surely as he observed the fourth victim over at the morgue in St. Bart's, a small needle mark was visible in the skin of her arm.

There was something he was missing, and on the quiet Thursday morning as he stood before the window in his dressing gown, he continued to screech off notes from his violin, not playing a tune of anything except perhaps his frustration over the lack of stimuli for this case. When something happened, his excitement rose to unnatural heights, but there was a slope to this case, and the serial killer appeared to have no pattern for his kills besides the larceny of eyeballs. A mistake would happen soon, and he'd be the first to spot it.

Shoes coming down the stairs alerted him to John on the move in the flat, though he didn't bother to turn around or cease in his playing, "Alright, I'm off." John said, the rustling of his coat sleeves indicating he was going outdoors.

"To where?" Sherlock bemused in disinterest.

An indignant sigh blew out from John's lips. Annoyance, and so early in the morning, "To work Sherlock, that place I go to so we make rent. Also, someone has to keep milk in the house."

"We have milk." He argued offhandedly.

"Fresh milk. Not whatever that gloop is in the fridge." A jingle of keys could be heard while John tied his scarf tightly around his neck and chin, "Are you actually going to get dressed today?"

"Irrelevant." He finally stopped with the violin, setting it aside as he flopped down in his chair. Lucy wasn't even present to hold his interest, which meant his mind turned to cigarettes, and that always managed to remind him of Avery whom hadn't resumed contact with them since her visit. He would be sorely disappointed if John was correct in his scaring her off so easily. That gave him an idea, "Call in sick today. I would like to make a visit to our head of security."

"Our head of security?" John questioned, before shaking his head and waving his gloved hands in the air, "Oh, never mind that. I can't call in sick. We've been too busy with treatments for people stuck on organ waiting lists, making them comfortable with what little we can provide for their symptoms. Plus, it snowed last night, which means there will be very few people willing to make the journey over if I'm not there. Go and see Avery yourself. Worst case scenario is she closes the door in your face." John shrugged, nothing left to say as he made for the door, shutting it with a little more force as he went.

Sherlock sat numbly, listening to the sound of John leaving, and then continued to listen to the muted sounds of Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was out again, and he realized her secretive behavior meant she was meeting with someone she didn't want John or him to know about, though him being the more likely reason. He cared little to explore that, so long as their landlady was happy and everything protected. Funny, he'd never much considered safety on any scale. Caution wasn't a familiar step taken in his line of work, but since Moriarty, he did halt for a fraction to think over it now, especially where his friends were concerned. He was more alert, and they were none the wiser for it. A fair trade.

Coming back from the recesses of his mind, he looked at the cold mantle above the fireplace. Without a roaring fire inside, it only seemed to filter in the winter air from outside from the first snow. His eyes continued to trace over the other objects, mostly everything in place and you wouldn't have known about his departure because of John's insistence to not move on, or his inability to do so. Even the yellow smiley face was still on the wall with the bullet holes, as if it had been plastered there the day the building was put up, lined in the drywall. His things. It seemed John was protective of preserving the memory of his existence here, and he could forgive sentiment just this once for his flatmate. His gaze landed on the empty cranium of his 'friend' sitting still on the mantle, two concaves in the front starring his way in question. He wasn't much in favour of the idea of speaking to his skull today. He needed real responses, and a set of eyes to at least look at.

As quick as his fingers could work, he tapped out a text and hit send while he went to his room to dress before he would grow distracted by other things. The file was still on his bed, tidied since the tea visit, though he hadn't bothered to look through it anymore, knowing from the woman herself it was fruitless. While it appeared she was going out of her way to purposefully goad him, it nevertheless was working, if only the smallest bit. She'd at least stopped her nettlesome habits of calling him by the last name.

Once he was finished dressing, he checked over his phone to see she had replied, the black and white text filled with her tone that he could almost hear her in the room with him.

I would ask how you know my living address, but that would be wasting our time.

I'll have tea made, whether or not you want any is up to you.

And be quick about it.

—AN

Curious. She didn't ask about his knowing her number either, leaving it up to assumption that John had given it to him. A half-truth. He'd stolen it from John's phone when his flatmate was sleeping. For the time, he needed to be able to contact her for the case, and for his own reasons of solving what she wished to remain hidden. He left his room, grabbing his coat and scarf for good measure. Without John, he'd have to pay his own fare, and traffic would be slow because of the rapid change in weather. Honestly, it wasn't as if they didn't receive snow every year, yet it always managed to grab the masses of London by surprise and there was a constant learning curve for drivers to adjust to the cold conditions.

He took the stairs two at a time, in haste to continue with the case and so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn't see Mrs. Hudson as she came through the door. Her cheeks were rosy, hat and shoulders lightly dusted with a layer from the falling snow while she stomped off the powder from her shoes, "Heading out dear?" She asked, slightly winded from the cold.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, slightly suspicious as his eyes swept over her, deducing where she had been, "You weren't meeting with your lady friend. You also haven't traveled far, coat and shoes showing only a hint of being touched by snow, so an attendance at Speedy's. This person was a stranger up until last night. You attire and perfume doesn't speak for a date, so a friendly visit then, over business or some form of collecting information."

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she smiled at him, "I've been interviewing for prospect renters for 221c. A young man in particular is interested, and I wanted to surprise you and John with a visit from him tonight. I should have known better."

Sherlock didn't hide the look of disgust that passed over his face. Who would voluntarily want to live in that dank basement flat of Baker Street, and he doubted if Mrs. Hudson would be able to find someone who could adjust to the lifestyle of the building. He didn't want to have to put up with a fresh face, and he understood why Mrs. Hudson had attempted to be quiet while going about this task.

"At least allow him this one visit. I'm sure he'll be able to make up his mind about wanting to live here himself." His landlady added, a slight pleading tone in her motherly voice.

"Oh, very well." He agreed, knowing full well they wouldn't be gaining a new neighbour if he could help it.

He placed a quick kiss on her cheek in goodbye before he left out the front door. Instantly he was assaulted by the blustering winds and the sharp feeling of snow and ice pelting his exposed face. Pulling his collar tighter around his neck, he signaled for a cab, by chance one had been passing through before it pulled to a skidding halt by the pavement. He shook the snow from his hair as he sat solo in the back, giving out Avery's address to the cabbie as they trudged their way into traffic. With his mood somber over the possibility of a new neighbour, he pulled out his phone as a distraction.

Avery hadn't responded again, and he hadn't bothered with a reply. Considering that he was making the trip to invade on her afternoon, he wondered if it was proper etiquette to say something else. John would know better in this situation. While it normally gave him no grievance to intrude on another, he knew his head of security was an exception to this ritual of his. She would have the advantage of setting, it being her flat. He rather liked always having a leg up on everyone he came across, but the odds were a little lost on him with her, if even the smallest fraction. How on Earth had London managed to hide her this long? With her being acquainted to Mycroft and Moriarty, it seemed outlandish they hadn't crossed paths until this point in time.

The cab ride was taking too long, and he blew out an annoyed breath, earning him an ardent look of animosity form the cabbie. Really though, he could walk faster than this car, and in the cold and snow too. He was convinced as ever that luck didn't exist, and if it did, it wouldn't favour his side. While managing to give direction tips into the ear of the annoyed cabbie, he made it to Avery's building a full twenty minutes later then he had intended.

"Oiy, off you go then." The cabbie said, glad to be rid of him after being told about that last sharp turn to the left that nearly resulted in the front bumper hitting a snow bank. Sherlock chalked it up to the cabbies low mental capacity and slow reaction time.

He was out in the frost again, winter biting without relent on the sharp contours of his face as he kept his collar as high as it could go, breathing into the fabric of his scarf that still held the faint tobacco from his last cigarette outside the Diogenes club. He hastened his pace, stretching his legs as far as they could carry him as he reached the ground floor of her building. A much different residence than Baker Street, more expensive which meant she had a larger space. He hadn't needed to ask if she had a flatmate, deducing it was obvious she lived alone because of the secrecy of her job. Just as well, she would make a rather difficult person to share a space with, and coming across another John Watson like he had in this city wasn't easy.

He sprinted up the wide set of stairs, nearly losing his breath as he reached her floor. He scrunched his nose at having to take more than his normal set of seventeen, finding this journey rather tiresome without his doctor. He knocked loudly at her door, causing much more noise than needed to make known his arrival. The scowl he was wearing didn't go away as the door opened, Avery standing there in an outfit he couldn't imagine she herself had picked out. A soft pink polo neck, and from pulling it over her head had ruffled her hair because the short strands in the back were brushed at odd angles. Her feet were bare on a cold day, dark trousers not quite reaching her ankles as she crossed them, waiting for him to step inside. She offered no greeting, though her eyes said everything for her.

"Very inconvenient, how far away you live." He commented.

"Well I'm sorry if my flat isn't up to your standard of distance." She said without sincerity, though not entirely unkind, "I have other company, so play nicely." Her warning was stern, not bothering with simple pleasantries which he was thankful for.

His eyes were hungry to study the details of her flat, but the thought was lost on him quickly as his eyes landed on a stocky figure on her chestnut brown settee, sipping casually from china as his frosted eyes met with a matching pair, "Good afternoon, Sherlock."

"No." Was the first word to leave his lips. He turned to Avery with guile, trying to add up the skewed lines of why she would be spending the early part of her day with his brother.

She held up her hand in defense, her mouth drawn into a thin line much like his, "An unexpected visit, I can assure you."

"No matter." Mycroft interrupted as he stood, setting the cup back down on its saucer as he went, "I was about to make my exit. Ms. Avery and I are finished with our business."

"Really?" Avery spoke out of surprise and an underlying of suspicion, "But you'd only just arrived ten minutes before."

"Indeed, that was more than enough time for me to have finished my share of the conversation. I trust you'll think over what I have said." He tightened the belt of his long coat, umbrella waiting for the grasp of his fingers at the door as he took care of one last glance at the telly, playing over an old episode of 'Only Fools and Horses'. He breathed a laugh at something 'Uncle Albert' said—Mycroft's laugh sounding more like a wheezing animal because he showed little affection for humor. He strode in short steps to the door where Sherlock hadn't moved, and he could see his brother sweating through those pricey layers already before making his journey out into the cold where a black car surely awaited, "Good day to you Avery. I will be in touch with Maxwell next week."

"I'll pass on the message." She promised amicably.

"Sherlock." He said once more with a head nod of acknowledgement, enough of a prod to rouse Sherlock's annoyance in his absence.

Avery shut the door, turning around in an instant as she leaned her weight up against the heavy oak. There was something playful about her expression, even though she wasn't smiling. Not that she ever did as Sherlock had noted, most unusual for the fairer sex, "Go on then, comment away." She said, giving her permission for him to speak freely.

"Visits with Mycroft are frequent for you." It wasn't so much a question, though he wanted the confirmation nonetheless.

"If I say yes, will you be disappointed?"

"Yes." He said with a scrunched up look of distaste.

She huffed as she pushed off the door with her weight, "Honestly, why is it you can still find children amongst men?" She walked past him into the sitting room of her flat, shutting off the telly while the room cascaded into silence, "I don't want to talk about your brother, so why don't we start with your reason for this visit?" She sat down in her tufted leather chair, supple and a rich brown colour that was rather inviting much like the matching settee. She made an indication with her hands that he could sit as well, not that he needed the invitation.

His observations of her flat left him with the same conclusions as the interior of her office space. She had nothing personal exposed, and she either had no sentiment, or a reason to hide all matter of items as such. The walls were neutral beige, the furniture lined in order where there was any. Much of the floor was unoccupied, a large span of rugs and hardwood with little else to view. No pictures once again, and neither did any artwork hang on the walls. While her taste was expensive, it felt like not a soul could be found in the showroom state of her home save for the upkeep of no fingerprints, dust or rings on the coffee table. He assumed her bedroom was down the narrow hallway to his right along with the loo and a small broom cupboard, while her kitchen was laid on the left with a spare bedroom. Everything was on the one floor, and the lighting dim even with the drapes pulled opened at the large bay window.

Patiently she waited for him to finish before speaking, "A break in the case then?"

"Unintentionally brought on by John, though he is unaware of that. Seeing as you conduct background checks, you must also know your workers medical records."

"I do." She answered honestly, her face growing curious, "All of those files are kept in my office at the club though, so anything you need to see, I'm afraid I don't have."

"Then I must ask you clear your schedule for today, regardless of important engagements."

She pulled a face, more in wonder than of anger, "John's not with you today?"

"Clinical work." Sherlock excused, not wanting to delve into the boring details of John's job.

She sighed as she brought herself out of her chair to stand, "Fortunate for you that I don't have any appointments to break. I'll go change, and please try to refrain from touching anything."

He listened to the soft padding of her feet travel across the curlicue patterned rug of her hallway before the small snap of her door to her bedroom. He was up from the settee in an instant, searching through the odd ends of her flat in hopes of finding anything more to educate him on the mystery of her past. Was it possible for a woman to own this little? His hands patted down her mantle, the cushions of her furniture and the side tables (in which he found a revolver in one of her drawers) before he silently went to the kitchen. Also a spotless room, the cupboards were dark and the appliances sanitary white as he rummaged through the contents. She certainly had more food kept around than he or John, and she was only one person. Health food, made up of the four food groups, though there was half a baked apple pie kept under plastic wrap that smelt sweeter than anything that had ever graced their kitchen. Dull, nothing alluding to her secrets, only that she was a healthy individual who would rather cook than order takeaway.

He strode back into the sitting room, a prominent frown on his face as he paced across the hardwood. She still hadn't returned, and the feminine habit of taking too long to get ready was trying his nerves. His mind came up with an idea to get her attention as his muted footsteps took him back over to her side table. Keeping quiet, his hand found the revolver lying in the wooden drawer, his fingers enclosing around it as he brought it out into the open. He knew which wall wasn't connected to another flat, and he took careful aim with a keen eye, grip secure around the trigger as he fired. Fascinating, his eyes took in the weapon with astonishment. Her pistol was of a higher caliber of strength than John's, and he had blown a sizably large hole in her wall, the paint chipping away as pieces of the drywall fell to the ground.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Avery shouted at him, having been halfway down the hall when he had fired. She had one hand covering her ear, shocked from the gunshot.

"Honestly, you were taking much too long and I am in a hurry."

She had no reply to that, and while he had been preparing for an onslaught of her words, he was decidedly surprised when a force hit him like a freight train, bringing him down to the ground as he went face to face with her floors, getting a mouthful of hardwood. He could almost taste the lemon pine sol floor cleaner as she kept him down with her weight atop him, her knee pressing into the middle of his back as she pried the revolver from his fingers, "Really, you had to do that? I have neighbours, some of whom I'd like not to report me. Things are strange enough around here as is with your brother stopping by unannounced." She spoke rather calmly considering their position, which he wasn't growing fond off. Rather degrading in fact. "You're paying for my wall." She remarked as she let him up.

He shot her a black glare as he dusted himself off from the unpleasant fall to the ground. Her lithe figure was rather deceiving and he hadn't anticipated being manhandled quite like that. It was rather good John wasn't there, though if he had been the gunshot wouldn't have likely occurred either. She put the gun back in her drawer, locking it for good measure before she crossed her arms to look at him with laughter in her eyes, "I suspect your searching was in vain because you wouldn't have found what you were looking for."

"And what do you think I was looking for?" He played along, feigning ignorance to her suggestion.

"The chain I was wearing at the funeral. I know you saw it, and you can be sure you won't find it again so stop looking."

Being told to quit only furthered his resolve to solving what she wished to remain hidden. He suspected his brother knew more about this woman before him, though he wasn't desperate enough to lower himself to such lengths. It was a new game, something to otherwise occupy his time when no cases were appealing to his mind. Presently he felt himself growing closer to catching this eye ball serial killer, so he set his priorities in order. It didn't stop his eyes from gliding across her bare neck as she walked to the entryway of her door, shrugging on her black peacoat with a gray scarf and hat as she waited for him to join her, "Come on then. Traffic is slow and I don't feel like getting caught up in a blizzard today."

He kept his eyes trained on her, deciding now would be the opportune situation to put an end to his hesitance to believe everything she had told him thus far. As she made to open her door, he reached over to shut it, his height still giving him a distinct advantage over her. She frowned in response, gazing up at him in question, "What is it?"

He loomed over her, trapping her into the corner between the wall and the door as her face fell into shadow from the dim and snug entrance of her flat, "You lied about your past with Moriarty."

She took in a deep breath, not breaking eye contact as they stood almost nose to nose, "Why would you think that?"

"You're reluctance to deny this fact as well as the change of the tone in your voice, detectable to ears that stop to listen. I first picked up on it when you were hesitant to agree to a date with John, and your voice was the same when you spoke to me about Moriarty."

"Oh Sherlock, you are so quick to pick up on the little things. Be careful not to solve everything at once or you'll become bored." She attempted to push past him, but he griped her left arm just above her wrist with his fingers. He tested her heart rate, strong and steady while her breathing remained the same. If it was possible, her eyes narrowed instead of dilating, indicating she wasn't enjoying this close proximity like many had before her, "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't use your tricks on me; I don't flatter easily."

"It is not a trick."

"Now who's the bad liar? You are looking for my breathing to be laboured, my heart rate to have increased, and my eyes to be dilated with arousal. I'm tempted to congratulate you on your forwardness, though old tricks do lose their lustre over time." She stepped forward, leaning her body up against his as he tensed with uncertainty, "Can I have my arm back now?" She whispered into his ear with a teasing edge.

His grip immediately retracted, and his arms went slack at his sides. He was thankful for the blackness they were surrounded in, or she might have caught him in embarrassment, "How did . . . you know about that?" He said as if it was mortally wounding to ask a question.

"A little bird far away told me." They stared at each other in the silence, and it went unsaid what he concluded she was hinting at.

His heart did something silly, plummeting at the idea, having forgotten much of her in the two years he was away to protect his friends. He didn't want to believe what his mind had already deemed as the answer. He now knew Avery was acquainted with Moriarty more than she had initially admitted to, because she was also familiar with The Woman. His mood was altered by this realization as he followed blindly by her side to the ground floor of her building. He most certainly hadn't scared her off with his deductions, though he was suddenly sparked with unwillingness to let her venture too close. Avery was either a victim or perpetrator, and he was finding it difficult to see how her being either would make a difference.

"Sherlock." Her voice interrupted the distance he had set between her and his mind palace. He stole a side-glance at her, waiting for her to continue as he turned his eyes forward, "I'm sorry I can't tell you more. Mycroft forbade me from doing so."

So his brother did know more. He scoffed in derision at her for obeying the rules so easily, "And you always do what he tells you?"

"If it is to keep others safe, then yes. You knowing, or not knowing won't change anything. I'm not a permanent fixture in your life anyway, so why should it matter if you know my past down to every detail?"

He ignored whatever sentiment was in her statement, left perplexed by only one thing, "Not a permanent fixture?"

"I should think it is obvious after this case is solved, we will no longer be in contact with one another."

She stopped walking when he did, them facing the doors to the lobby as the white shining snow reflected outside, "John likes you." He said blankly.

"And I like him. I like you both, but that's no reason we have to keep speaking. It's part of my life I guess. I'm not supposed to have friends." She looked at him with an earnest smile before nudging her head to the door, "Come on, go show off and get a cab before I do again."

Her actions seemed forced as she started for outside. Something in her words had caused him to go numb as he followed, quite lost from the melancholy in her voice. She wasn't supposed to have friends, and he didn't have any idea what that meant. Perhaps he should have been more expressive in John's favour of her, just to keep her from saying those things. There had been a time where he had spoken similar, and being placed on the opposite end put him in a zone he was unadjusted to. But what could he say? He wasn't annoyed or irritated by her presence, and he found that to be his level of liking someone in return. The words felt so personal though, and wouldn't be forced to say them for the sake of sparing whatever feelings she was experiencing. He did what he was best at, remaining silent as he hailed them a cab at the pavement of her building, smirking to himself as he once again caught the frustration on her face, whited out by the snow.

There is more and more with Avery at every turn. I had fun with this chapter, though I missed John a lot. 221c is starting to get new applicants, and we'll see how that goes yet, but first we have to see the second part of Avery and Sherlock's afternoon as they come to another break in the case. Stay tuned. Hope everyone who saw the Hobbit enjoyed it also, and am planning on a Smaug one-shot soon, so keep an eye opened for that.