A/N Hello, faithful readers. Slowly and painfully, this storyline is opening itself to me, I hope you've been enjoying it. Remember, reviews are like Nan's homemade biscuits, they are love!
"This is quite irregular, John. Neither I nor our patients are used to armed guards in the surgery," a woman's frustrated voice carries out to the black-clad woman standing in the hall, relaxed but aware.
"I'm sorry, Sarah, it was this or I couldn't be here today. It's not my idea of a good time, myself," grumbles John Watson.
"Well, then. We'll just have to make do, I guess. I wish you wouldn't keep getting yourself into such trouble."
"Wasn't really my choice. If you'd rather, I could leave."
"No, John, no. It's that I just worry."
"Sorry," he returns, meekly.
"No, if you didn't go rushing off into danger, you wouldn't be you."
"I wasn't rushing, I was coming to tea," he responded.
"Yes, I gathered," she replied, and, in a brisker voice, "there's a gentleman in examination 4. We'll talk about this later," she relents.
As John leaves her office, Amanda follows behind, a dark shadow passing through the halls.
She quickly check's room four, and leaves the doctor to his work as she stands outside, opening a mobile.
Sherlock quietly enters the parlour, Alexandra at the desk, waving a piece of a5 cardstock, drying the ink from the lowered fountain pen.
"Have a nice rest?" she queries, her back to him.
"Not particularly. I hate waiting."
She turns around, slipping the card into an envelope, sealing it with a wet sponge. Pressing something under the desk. "Until something new develops, all we have is following old leads and waiting for him to pull something new. That is best handled by those with less of a target on their back."
"I know. But I hate being bored!"
At this, Gunthar enters with a soft knock. "Madame?"
"Please have this delivered," she walks and hands him the envelope, Sherlock glimpsing the addressee.
At his mistress's, "thank you," he nods and exits.
She looks at her guest, draped over a chair, "c'mon."
"What for?" he questions, languidly.
"Let's see if we can do something about your boredom."
At this he leaps up, following closely behind, eager to find some distraction.
Back to the elevator, the enter, this time there's just the scan and the panel pops open. Pressing a button near the top, there's just a moment before the lift doors open. Two signs and two directions, one for a 'gym' and one for a 'range'.
"I suppose they'll be company for supper, Sherlock states.
"You saw the invitation."
"The lift?"
"Has your biometrics scanned, you're now able to access all the public areas."
She leads him down the corridor to the range, arriving at a door with a palm scanner.
"Place your hand on the sensor plate, please."
A light transverses from top to bottom. At a questioning beep, she places her hand on it and a green light appears on the scanner as the door buzzes open. The scent of gun oil hits him as soon as he walks in.
A room to the left holds an arsenal a small country would envy. From small hand pistols like the Beretta, 9mm and .357 Glocks, Kel-tec's, SIG-P288, Colts and other's. The machine guns included HK-21, LSAT, Stoner LMG, MG4, MG3, and a lovely new HK121. Off against one rack were the standard AK-47 and M16 rifles.
It was the sniper rifles, the Winchester Magnum and the .50 BMG that really surprised him.
"Planning a war anytime soon?"
"No plans, as yet. I expect all of my people to keep their skills honed and current."
"All?"
"Yes, I advise against bearding Mrs. Walshtien in the kitchen, she's a mean one with a blade. So reign in any urge to experiment in her kitchen. If you need to, we've a chem lab."
"Is there anything you don't have here?"
She thinks for a moment, "we don't have a cricket round."
"Hmmn, such a sad lack. However do you bear it?"
"We manage. So choose you pleasure. Bullseye or Silhouette?"
Sherlock removes his jacket and absently on a counter and walks to the wall of handguns. "Silhouette," as he chooses a Dessert Eagle.
".357 coming right up," she announces, pulling open a drawer and removing a box of ammo. She opens another drawer and grabs another box, moving to the rack of pistols and pulls down a Beretta P4sc. She hands the appropriate box to Sherlock, opening the other onto the table. Slipping out the empty magazine, pulling back the slide catch and checking to make sure the barrel is empty and clear.
She lays her gun down and moves back to the gun rack, opening a couple of bins with extra empty magazines for both guns. Silently handing the magazines for the Eagle, she returns to her gun and bullets and begins loading the magazines.
Looking to see that Sherlock's progress has kept pace with hers, she hands him a tray for his gun and magazines.
Following her, she takes him down a hallway, opening the second door they come to. "Glasses?"
"Not necessary," he replies as he receives the ear protectors from her.
She flips a switch and the sound of fans ventilating the area before he covers his ears.
Placing another set of protectors on herself, she lights the range, pressing the button for the target hanger to come to the booth, she hooks the human shaped target and sets it to 30 metres. She waves him forward, he places the tray on the ledge and loads his gun as she moves to the booth next to his, repeating the process.
Gently but firmly injecting the magazine, pulling back the slide to chamber a bullet, she takes aim and joins her guest in decimating the targets before them.
Nearly half five and it had been a relatively quiet afternoon, when a young man in a black suit knocks on her door frame for entry.
"Yes?" Sarah asks.
"For you, doctor," he begins, handing over an envelope.
"Thank you," she returns, nonplussed as he immediately leaves.
Carefully slitting open a side of the envelope, she pulls out a hand calligraphied invitation to dinner. Reading it, she shakes her head and heads out to the intake nurse. "Is Dr. Watson with a patient?"
"No, ma'am, he's still in Exam 2, though."
Sarah walks to Exam 2, a brisk nod to the woman standing outside, gently raps on the door.
"Come in," John's familiar voice calls.
She quickly enters, John sees her stunned face, rises and moves to her.
"Is everything all right?"
Silently, she hands over the invitation.
John quickly reads:
Dear Dr. Sawyer,
I'm well aware of the imposition placing a guard in your clinic is and would like to begin to offer reparations. This is to invite you to my home for casual supper. No need to reply, if it is in the affirmative, just come with Dr, Watson and you will later be returned to either your home or vehicle location.
Sincerely,
Dr. Alexandra Ravenna
"Well?" John asks, "would you like to go?"
She looks at him, seeing his comfortable smile and answers, "why not, it might be interesting."
"Oh, it definitely will, she's the first person I've seen put Sherlock on his back foot."
"Truly?"
"Most assuredly."
"I certainly have to meet her, then."
Button down, the paper target heads towards Sherlock, the continues percussion from the booth beside him stops, and he's soon joined by Alexandra removing her ear protection.
He follows suit, pulling down his target from 75 metres, his bullet holes making a frowning face as well as a neat circle where the heart would be.
"Nice," she comments, "I don't know if it's art, but I like it." She grins at his surprise at her joviality.
"How did you do?" he counters, going to her vacated booth. Her target is already at the booth, he notices the valentine heart shape a little left of centre, with a punctured arrow through. "75 metres?" at her nod, he looks down at the pistol she'd been shooting, "I thought the effective range of the standard Berretta was 50 metres, much less the sub-compact."
"It is," she replies, "I just tend to hit what I am at," she nods down and he notices a perfectly executed 'X' across the groin quadrant.
Sherlock gives an involuntary wince, "remind me not to make you angry," he requests.
"No promises, though I'm not likely to take a gun to you if you just irritate me."
"Oh? What's more likely?"
"A bit of a throw around in the gym."
Sherlock grins, "no wonder my brother's wary of you, he does detest physical effort, so."
"And my vast network of personal retainers."
"You make it sound like you're a feudal lady."
"Oh, no." she laughs, "not for centuries."
He laughs with her as they gather up the pistols and empty magazines, heading back to the armoury. Inside is an elderly looking gentleman, sitting at a work table, pouring steaming metal into bullet mould.
She indicates he should place his tray next to hers on the counter. She waits for the man to set down the ladle before speaking, "Louis, if you would?"
"My pleasure, Miss. Anything else I can help you with?"
"No thank you, and Mrs Dabney?"
"Off visiting the girls, they're lovely, but we're hoping for a grandson this time," he answers with a wizened smile.
"Be sure and let me know, I'd hate to miss a natal day."
"You haven't yet, Miss."
"That's because I have such good keepers. Send Chloe my best."
"I will, Miss. Have a good evening."
"That is the plan. Don't work too late, can't have Mrs. Dabney at me for wearing you out."
The man's face blushes a bit, "oh she'd never do that, Miss."
"I'll not chance it," she replies with a grin.
"Then I shall finish this up, clean your guns and head for tea."
Alexandra sighs with feigned relief, "thank you. Good evening, then."
"Good evening, Miss, he then returns to his work, ladling metal into another bullet mould.
Alexandra grabs the jacket discarded earlier and tosses it to Sherlock. Catching it, he slips it on as they leave the range area and enter the lift.
This time, instead of a green scanning light, a purplish blue light falls from top to the floor. Then the lift indicators begin changing. The doors open to the main floor, as they exit, Sherlock asks, "the light was different this time?"
"Decontamination field. Removes just about anything nasty, in this case, GSR and blowback. She lifts her head, sniffing the air. "Dinner in an hour. I'm going to freshen up."
"I don't have anything formal," Sherlock states.
"It's casual, as long as your not starkers, you'll be fine."
He follows her up the stairs, she continues up another flight as he peels off to his rooms. Into the bathroom, looking at his face in the bright light, his head throbs just a bit. Moving his hand to the few sutures on his head, touching them with a wince. He notices a yellow sticky note on the wide mirror with Paracetamol written and a downward arrow, point to a bottle and an empty glass below.
He empties two tablets into his hand, takes the glass and fills it at one of the faucets. Swallowing, he sets the glass down, leaning on the counter, face closer to the glass. "What are you up to?" he quietly asks his reflection.
Ah, a dinner party! Gosh how boring! Maybe not. And just who is this woman? I know, and I ain't tellen yet. Just a quick note, the more reviews I get, the faster I write. C'mon, folks, give me incentive! I'll give you a virtual hug!
