Hello everyone!
Disclaimer: I only own Mel :D
The taxi ride was filled with silence. Mel gazed out the window at the passing buildings, watching them fly past. The clouds converged above, blocking out the light of the sun.
The boys were quiet, which was always odd.
Her head throbbed painfully at every bump and pothole the cabbie drove over. Perhaps she should've gone back to her apartment. As she massaged her temples, her fingers grazed the bandaged cut above her brow. She winced.
Sherlock swiveled in his seat and gazed over at her. He raised a brow in question. Mel smiled through the pain. It didn't reach her eyes. His cool stare took her in for a long moment. He shifted in the seat, edging closer to the woman. Their thighs brushed. The redhead could feel the heat radiating from the man's body. His legs were encased in perfectly tailored black slacks. His heat filtered through to her denim clad legs.
The woman inhaled deeply, forcing herself not to react. The consulting detective's eyes were focused directly on her- most likely calculating her pulse from the blood pounding through her femoral artery. The memory of the kiss back at the flat invaded her thoughts, not at all helping the dancer's cause. Sudden fantasies bombarded her mind at the man's subtle touch.
Slim fingers tangled in dark curls. The texture could only be compared to the softest of expensive silks, similar to the sheets beneath the couple. Their limbs were tangled as they held each other in a passionate embrace. The woman sighed. Her senses were under attack. The man tasted of mint and cigarettes. He had the majority of his weight supported on his forearms. She could feel the entirety of his naked body flush against hers-
Mel shook herself, breaking the contact of their legs. She pressed herself as close as she could to the window. She forced herself to stare outside- if only to rid the images from her head.
It's as if your mind has degraded to that of a horny schoolgirl. Calm your hormones and ignore the man!
Come on, McAllister. Keep it together.
Straightening her shoulders, the woman steeled her resolve. She began working through complex algebra equations in her head. Then it was on to mentally deconstructing automobiles and their engines. It didn't take long until she was able to quell the ache between her thighs.
John didn't notice the interaction. If he did, the doctor didn't say a word. His gaze was focused outside at the cloudy sky.
Not long after, the taxi pulled up to the curb. Mel had her seatbelt off and had jumped out before the black cab could even roll to a complete stop. She breathed in deep pulls of fresh, chilled air; air that wasn't laced with the scent of Sherlock Holmes.
The army doctor and the detective joined the woman on the sidewalk. They past her, walking in synchronized step to the building ahead. Mel's emerald gaze was drawn upwards. A monstrous glass building towered high above them. 'New Scotland Yard', was written in large white letters on the sides of an elevated triangular prism.
The boys turned, noticing the redhead was no longer following them. She jerked into motion, jogging across the pavement to catch up to the men just as they reached the doors. John opened the doors for her, smiling kindly. The dancer returned the gesture. She slipped through the doorway.
The three walked across the polished lobby floor. A man approached them instantly.
Between the ages of thirty-five and forty. Married unhappily... most likely estranged... Grey hair, relatively handsome... Walks with a sense of power. Most likely a high ranking detective or field agent-
"Thanks for coming," the man said, offering his hand for Sherlock to shake. The consulting detective brush past him without a word, leaving the hand hanging awkwardly in midair. Just as the man was about to drop his arm, Mel stepped forward and took his hand. She smiled sweetly, ignoring Sherlock as he turned back and narrowed his eyes.
"Mel McAllister," the dancer lilted, shaking his hand firmly.
The man looked flabbergasted. The look passed swiftly as he took in the woman's appearance- looking her up and down. He finally gave her a matching grin.
"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," he introduced, holding the redhead's petite hand in his for a couple of beats too long. Mel smiled softly and took her hand away. The man flushed.
"It's lovely to meet you, Sir. I've heard that you are quite proficient at your job. Especially on the Piccadilly Circus murder."
He looked surprised. "Really? That's always nice to hear-" He paused. "Ah... you must be the woman Donovan was telling me about. The one who found the victim's daughter. Nice catch, by the way."
"Yes Sir, that'd be me," she nodded, smiling once more. "Thank you."
"Donovan did say you were quite beautiful-"
It was Mel's turn to blush. A bright scarlet hue touched her cheekbones.
A deep, aggravated growl broke off their conversation. Sherlock strode back to them.
"Can we keep moving please?" His voice was tight.
Lestrade looked over at him in surprise and nodded. He proceeded to lead them to the elevators. John was quick to follow him, chatting with the man amicably. They pressed the button to call for the elevator.
Mel rolled her eyes at consulting detective's antics as she moved to follow the men to the lift. A hand wound around her slim wrist, pulling her to a stop. The dancer stumbled and looked back. Sherlock gazed down at the woman- handsome features completely void of any emotion. His grasp was unyielding.
He broke their locked gaze to look over at the other men who'd already stepped into the elevator. They were holding the door.
"I need a moment to speak with Miss McAllister. We'll get the next one," Sherlock called, tightening his grip on the woman's arm.
Mel's heart stuttered.
John glanced at them skeptically. "Alright."
As soon as the other men disappeared from sight, Mel glared at the detective. "Can you please stop manhandling me? It's rude!" She attempted to yank her wrist away, but he held fast. He didn't reply- his cool, calculated expression in full force. "Sherlock... Let me go." She tried again to break free, but the man was too strong.
He dragged her towards the elevators without a word and pressed the call button.
Mel sighed exasperatedly. "If you wanted to hold my hand, you could ask..."
It was obvious the man didn't want to show any sort of public displays of affection. He was mad. No... he was furious. Mel look in Sherlock's appearance out of the corner of her eye. A nerve pulsed wildly in his temple. His lips pursed into a straight line. The nerve under his left eye twitched faintly.
Sherlock pulled the woman into the lift and punched the floor number. The doors slid shut, ominously cutting the woman off from the safety of the world. Mel swallowed.
"W-why are you so upset?" She whispered, glanced tentatively up at the man through her dark lashes.
He drew in a heavy breath. His jaw twitched. "I'm not."
"You're a dreadful liar," she muttered. She turned to face the metal doors, trying to ignore the fact that her hand was growing increasingly more and more numb. She tried to move her fingers, but it seemed that the man's grip was inhibiting the movements of the tendons.
He exhaled roughly. It sounded more like a vicious growl. It was animalistic- primal.
Sherlock lunged, pushing the woman flat against the back of the elevator. Before she could move, the man pinned her to the wall with his hips. He snatched her other wrist, easily taking both of them in his large grasp. He lifted her arms above her head, shackling them in a vice-like grip. His free hand went to her hair, tugging forcefully at the scarlet tendrils. Mel let out a gasp at the sudden sting, head tipping back out of her own accord.
His lips crashed down on hers rather violently. The woman gasped once more, this time in astonishment. Sherlock took full advantage, slipping his tongue deftly into her mouth- ravaging her senses. Any semblance of self-control the dancer raised in the taxi ride crumbled to the ground uselessly around her. The kiss was demanding. It was all tongue and heat.
She was completely helpless. His hand was an unbreakable manacle for her wrists. The one in her hair jerked harder, slanting her head for easier access. Sherlock's hips restrained her. Mel felt him thrust lightly against her belly, eliciting a groan from her lips. The consulting detective swallowed the noise, stroking her tongue expertly with his.
Just as she melted into the kiss, Sherlock pulled away. He dropped his hold from her wrists and let go of the hair at the nape of her neck. He stepped back, putting several feet of distance between them. Mel pulled a shaky hand through her tresses, breathing heavily. The man looked down at her calmly, not at all out of breath.
"He was flirting with you." The words were quiet and punctuated with a deadly staccato.
Mel bit her lip. "S-sorry... what are we talking about?" Her head was foggy from the lack of oxygen reaching her brain.
The detective pursed his lips. He moved forward, reaching out a hand. He grasped the woman's chin, softly tugging at it so she released her bottom lip.
"If you do not wish me to take you in this elevator, right now, I would advise you to not bite your lip," he warned, his deep baritone like gravel.
Mel gulped, eyes widening at his words.
"Lestrade was flirting with you; holding your hand too long, calling you 'beautiful' even though Donovan told him you 'pretty', complimenting you..." he trailed off with a sneer.
The redhead pulled away and this time he let her go. "I'm not an object, Sherlock. I'm not your toy. You don't own me," she hissed.
The doors opened. Mel exited first.
"I'm most certainly aware of this fact, Melina," Sherlock whispered.
Mel heard a trace of an unknown emotion coloring his tone as she marched away from him. She didn't respond to her words. She was tired of the man's childish attitude.
The emotion... disappointment? No... that doesn't make sense...
Jealously?
She looked down at her burning wrist. Her skin was an angry pink from his harsh grip. Then she thought over the way he had acted. Growling, almost possessive of her when Lestrade called her beautiful. His overwhelming anger. Then the kiss in the elevator... as if he was marking his territory...
Sherlock Holmes was jealous.
Mel shook her head at the audacity of it.
She turned the corner of the hall and found herself in a large office-type space. Lestrade and John were waiting to the side, speaking with one another. They looked over as Mel entered.
"Mel are you alright?" John glanced down at the wrist she was rubbing absentmindedly.
Shaken from her musings, Mel fit her hands in the pockets of Sherlock's coat. "Uh yeah, of course. I'm
fine."
The doctor frowned. As his flatmate entered the room, he fixed him with a suspicious glare. His gaze flitted back to the young woman.
"You're sure?"
"I'm fine, alright? Just leave me be!"
The blonde man was taken aback by the woman's change in tone. She'd never yelled at him before.
Mel rubbed her brow. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted. I'm not feeling well... the explosion, you know..."
John nodded slowly in understanding, stepping forward to check the wound above her brow.
Lestrade crossed his arms. "You were injured?"
The dancer shrugged. "Concussion."
The doctor prodded the wound lightly, making the woman wince. "You should be resting," he scolded gently.
She reached up to grasp his hand, bringing it away from her head. "I'll be fine, John. Don't worry about me."
Their gazes locked. She held his hand in hers sweetly. Mel could almost feel the fury rolling off of Sherlock in thick waves. John nodded, taking his hand away.
Sherlock brushed past them, looking at Lestrade expectantly. "Why did you bring us down here?"
The detective inspector nodded. He started walking into the room, expecting the others to follow him. "Ah yes. You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones."
"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, anger lacing his tone.
"You've love this. That explosion-"
Sherlock glared at Donovan as they passed her desk. "Gas leak, yes?"
Mel noticed the nameplate on the woman's desk: DETECTIVE SERGENT SALLY DONOVAN
"No."
Sherlock glanced up at him in surprise. "No?"
"No," Lestrade repeated, "Made to look like one."
John pulled away from Mel's side, obviously shocked. "What?"
Mel followed the men into what was obviously Lestrade's office.
Picture frame face down on the desk. Married quite unhappily- White envelope... not supposed to be there-
"Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box – a very strong box and inside it was this." Lestrade pointed to the white envelope laying on his desk.
"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.
"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade raised a brow. Just as the consulting detective reached for the envelope, the grey-haired man spoke up once more. "We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped."
Mel crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe.
"How reassuring..." the brunette hummed dryly. He picked up the envelope and took it across the room to another table with a lamp on it. He held the envelope close to the bulb, examining the sides carefully. Mel couldn't see much of anything, as the man's back was to her.
"Nice stationery. Bohemian..."
Lestrade frowned. "What?"
"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"
"No."
Sherlock bent over the envelope. "She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold – iridium nib."
John walked forward. "'She'?"
The consulting detective exhaled. "Obviously."
"Obviously..." John seemed to be struggling to hold back his exasperation. Mel patted the doctor's back comfortingly.
Sherlock reached over to pick up a letter opener from the desk. And carefully slit the envelope open. He looked inside and his mouth dropped a little in surprise. He reached in and took out a pink iPhone. It was obvious that the phone meant something profound to him.
"But that's – that's the phone, the pink phone!" John cried.
Mel pushed away from the wall. "What is so fantastic about a pink phone...?" she paused, taking in the expressions on the men's faces. "Did it have something to do with a case?"
Sherlock waved a hand. "It was from a murder investigation before you came to-" he cut himself off. "How did you know it had something to do with a case?"
The woman shrugged. "It's a phone. Obviously a woman's phone, so it doesn't belong to either of you. It's too expensive to be the phone of a young girl, so she must've been in her early to late forties. A working woman who likes pink...? Probably someone in the media. You both recognize the phone. Where do you both go? Crime scenes. Something happened on the case- not enough to scar you, but enough to leave an imprint... you were put in a life threatening situation." The man's silence was enough validation. She continued. "Now the phone is here, obviously not the same one- because that one has barely been used- so it has something to do with what happened at the apartment. The explosion. Someone knows the details of your previous investigations. It's logic, boys. Simple observation."
The men looked at her with various expressions of awe.
Lestrade shook himself. "You're the female version of Sherlock..."
Mel smirked. "Ah no, certainly not. I don't believe the world could handle two of our favorite consulting detective," the woman hummed softly.
Everyone chuckled expect for Sherlock. He narrowed his eyes. The redhead avoided his gaze.
"Is it the phone from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked.
"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like ..." He stopped, registering what the man had said. "The Study in Pink? You read the blog?"
The dancer frowned. "There's a blog?"
Lestrade chuckled. "Course I read his blog! We all do. D'you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?"
Donovan- who'd entered the office to grab a file folder- snickered childishly.
Mel rolled her eyes. "I don't read the blog..." the young woman breathed, but none of the men were paying her any attention.
Sherlock slid his gloves off, pinning Sally with a cool stare. John purses his lips in embarrassment. The rude woman left the room. Sherlock turned his concentration back to the phone.
"Miss McAllister was correct. This isn't the same phone. This one's brand new." He paused. "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership." He finished, throwing an accusatory glare at his flatmate. He switched on the phone.
"YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE." The voice alert of the phone notified.
Then the phone began to beep.
It stopped seconds later.
"Is that it?" John asked.
"No. That's not it."
Mel stepped forward, accompanied by Lestrade. The other men were looking at a picture on the mobile. The picture was of an unfurnished room with a fireplace on one wall. The unflattering wallpaper peeled from the wall. There was a mirror propped up in the corner and another on the mantel of the fireplace.
The woman stopped. Images shot through her mind before she could stop them. She vaguely heard the men talking. She closed her eyes, pushing away the outside noise; filtering through every image she'd seen since she'd arrived.
That wallpaper...
221C Baker Street. The flat.
Mel gasped, stumbling back. "I know where it is."
The men stopped talking and looked to the young woman. The room was filled with silence.
John stepped forward. "Mel?"
"It's the goddamned apartment!"
At the blank looks the men gave her, the redhead groaned. "Honestly? You're not going to say anything?"
The woman groaned impatiently. She stepped out of Lestrade's office before they could say anything. The dancer strode down the hall back to the elevator. She jabbed the call button, tapping her foot anxiously. Behind her, she heard three sets of feet jogging to catch up.
...
The taxi ride back to Baker Street was cramped. Sherlock had jumped in right after Mel, as if he didn't want Lestrade to sit too close to her. John sat in front of her. The dancer jumped out of the cab as soon as if pulled up to the curb. She burst through the front doors, leaving the men to pay for the taxi. Her mind had been whirring obnoxiously since New Scotland Yard.
She knocked kindly on Mrs. Hudson's door despite the hastiness thundering through her limbs. The 221a plaque taunted her.
"Mrs. Hudson! It's Mel, could you come to the door, please?"
Moments later, she heard shuffling. The door unlatched and opened. Mrs. Hudson popped her head out. "Oh, hello dear. Are you feeling better?"
Mel smiled despite herself. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you." Footsteps leaped up the front stairs and into the building. "I actually have a favor to ask of you."
The elderly woman smiled. "Anything for you, my dear."
The dancer's heart warmed. "We actually need you to open 221c, if you could."
Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Of course." She left for several moments and everyone moved down the narrow corridor to the flat in question. Several minutes after, Mrs. Hudson exited her flat. She handed Mel a set of keys. Sherlock looked up from the padlock he'd been examining on the door. Mel gave the keys to the consulting detective. He took them without a glance in her direction and began to unlock it.
"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat. And I sent you that picture before you came to London, my dear," the landlady said. John gazed back at Mel, raising a brow.
"You recognized the flat from a picture you saw more than a month ago?"
The young woman shrugged. "I have a good memory-"
"She has a photographic and eidetic memory, John," Sherlock hummed.
Mel sighed in irritation, ignoring the shocked looks sent her way. "It's not a big deal..."
"She's lying. It's extremely rare. Less than two percent of the world have either, let alone both," his deep voice sounded once more. The woman bit the inside of her mouth to hold off a nasty retort. "The door's been opened recently."
Mrs. Hudson gasped. "No, can't be. That's the only key."
Sherlock pulled off the padlock and selected another key and inserted it into the keyhole.
The landlady sighed. "I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements."
Sherlock turned the key and pulled the door open. He immediately entered. John and Lestrade followed quickly.
"I had a place once when I was first married. Black mould all up the walls-"
Mel slipped through just before Lestrade closed the door. Unfortunately, he rudely cut off Mrs. Hudson. They reached the bottom of the stairs quickly, pushing open the door to the living room. They entered rather tentatively. There was no doubt in Mel's mind that it was the place the picture was taken from. Then her gaze trailed down. She frowned.
John was the first to break the silence. "Shoes."
The young redhead couldn't help but find the ridiculously obvious statement amusing.
Sherlock walked towards them but the doctor shot a cautionary hand towards him.
"He's a bomber, remember."
The consulting detective paused momentarily before resuming his path. Mel exhaled and crossed her arms over her chest. He crouched down, putting his hands on the floor. He leaned forward. Finally, he flattened his entire body on the ground, analyzing the shoes meticulously. The man made sure not to touch them, but started to move closer. The shrill ringing of a phone broke the tense moment. Everyone jumped, including the man laying on his belly like a snake.
Mel placed the heel of her hand against her forehead, chuckling anxiously.
Sherlock stood and pulled off his gloves. He took the pink iPhone out of his coat pocket and looked at the caller I.D. He paused for a beat before answering the call.
"Hello?"
"H-hello... sexy..." Tearful sobs flooded from the phone's speakers.
Mel looked up in alarm.
"Who's this?"
"I've sent you a little... puzzle..." The woman whimpered. "Just to say... hi."
"Who's talking?" Sherlock demanded. "Why are you crying?"
"I-I'm not crying ... I'm typing... and this ... stupid ... bitch ... is reading it out..." The caller cried out heartbreakingly.
"The curtain rises," Sherlock muttered, mind far away.
Mel exhaled shakily, stepping forward to speak into the phone. John wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to his side. She glared at the doctor and tried to move away. He responded by winding both of his arms around her. The redhead grumbled, struggling to extract herself out of his surprisingly tight grip.
"What?" John grunted, locking his arms around the struggling woman.
"Nothing."
"No, what did you mean?"
Sherlock turned and raised a brow. Mel was lifted completely off the ground, kicking madly. She wriggled around, trying to bite the doctor's arm.
"...I've been expecting this for some time."
"Twelve hours to solve my puzzle... Sherlock..." There was a shiver in her voice. "Or I'm going to be so... naughty..."
The phone went dead.
Mel managed to bite down on John's forearm, sinking her teeth in. He dropped her with a shout, grabbing his arm. The redhead dropped to the ground.
"Y-you bit me! YOU BLOODY BIT ME!"
Mel grimaced, wiping her mouth, attempting rid the salty taste of her friend's skin. "A very astute deduction, Dr. Watson." She coughed. "You taste like... garlic..." She pulled a disgusted face. "I hate garlic..."
John's jaw dropped. He went a particularly vibrant shade of tomato red. The other men looked at the two with various looks of humor and impassiveness.
"Thank you for holding onto her, John," Sherlock drawled, obviously the latter.
The petite tried to look as foreboding as possible by puffing her chest and fixing a deadly stare on the detective. "Excuse me?"
He shrugged nonchalantly. "I had a feeling that you'd try something reckless or interrupt. Before we exited the taxi, I made John promise to hold you if it did happen. It was pure luck that you got out first, giving us enough time to chat." A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. "It's a good thing I accounted for that scenario."
Mel gaped. "That poor woman..." She shook her head, throwing up her hand heatedly. "None of you even care! Do you?"
She left the room, slamming the door behind her. She leaped up the stairs and burst out of the building. The young woman sucked the cool air into her lungs, relishing in the sweet burning sensation. She sat heavily on the front steps, covering her face with her hands.
How can they not care? That woman could die... Is this all a game to him?-
The front door opened slowly. Mel didn't turn. She heard a deep sigh.
"Melina, I need to go to St. Bartholomew's to examine the trainers," the deep baritone voice explained.
The woman exhaled, swallowing her anger. "Right..."
"Would you like to accompany John and I?"
"No."
The man growled. "Will you please answer me with more than monosyllables?"
"No."
Groan. "Be reasonable, Melina-"
She stood robotically and turned to look at the handsome detective. His sharp jaw was clenched with tension. His silver eyes flashed. "You made John manhandle me and you're telling me to be reasonable?! I'm not a child, Sherlock!" Her voice echoed through the street.
His brows knitted together. "I believe that fact it obvious." The heat of his eyes trailed down the woman's body.
She fought off a blush and crossed her arms over her chest. "Sherlock... my eyes are up here."
The man's gaze drifted back to her face.
Mel raised a brow.
He shrugged unrepentantly. "I'm pointing out the obvious, Melina. I'm aware you are a woman. I wouldn't be in a relationship with you if you were a child, as you say."
She raked a hand through her long tresses. "Then stop treating me like one!"
Sherlock stopped.
Their gazes locked in a silent battle. Mel implored the beautiful, controlling, jealous man to understand. She swallowed. Several minutes later, Sherlock finally nodded.
"I will not 'manhandle' you again, unless it's absolutely necessary."
She sent him a pointed look. "No, not at all."
Sherlock stalked forward slowly. "But you like it when I kiss you, don't you? Or if I lift you if you're in trouble or hurt?"
Mel blushed scarlet. Memories of the kiss in the elevator returned to her. "Fine. Just no control freak tendencies, alright?"
He smirked, reaching down to grasp her wrist. She watched him skeptically. He pushed the cuff of her jacket sleeve up, revealing only a small strip of pale flesh, still smarting and pink from his treatment. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to it softly. "I apologize if I hurt you this morning," he whispered against her skin- grey eyes watching her every move.
The sight of him doing this made Mel smile. She couldn't be angry with him when he was this sweet. It was a strange sight to behold.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The front door opened again and Lestrade and John exited. Mel looked up, slipping her hand from the consulting detective's loose grip. Her emerald eyes shot to the doctor.
"I apologize for biting you, John."
He waved it off, chuckling. "It's alright. Just remind me to never get on your bad side."
They all laughed.
"So, are you coming with us to Bartholomew's?" John asked.
Mel smiled. "Of course. We have a woman to save."
...
Sherlock brought the trainers to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. They were up in one of the science labs and the detective was thoroughly examining them, hands covered in a pair of latex gloves. He gazed at the shoes, picking them up so he could clearly see every fibre of the laces. He turned them around in every possible direction. He dug out crusted dirt from the treads in the soles and placed the sample into a Petri dish. Finally he place the shoes down, looking at them thoughtfully.
Mel was curled up in a chair, Sherlock's wool coat covering her, reading a book. She read through it leisurely, taking her time. The lab was completely silent, excluding the John's quiet pacing and the detective's deep exhales. His eyes were focused completely on what was under his microscope. The computer next to him was running an analysis on various samples he'd collected. John finally stopped pacing. Mel glanced up over her book. He sat down on the other side of the bench Sherlock was on.
"So, who d'you suppose it was?"
Sherlock's phone alerted to another text message. "Hmm?"
"The woman on the phone – the crying woman," John clarified.
"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there."
"For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads."
"You're not going to be much use to her," the detective drawled, glancing to the scanner. Another "NO MATCH" sign blinked on the screen. He went back to his microscope.
John sighed. "Are-are they trying to trace it, trace the call?
"The bomber's too smart for that." The phone alerted another text. "Pass me my phone."
John frowned. "Where is it?"
"Jacket."
Mel chuckled at the look the doctor sent the him. "I'll do it, don't worry John." She put down her book and folded the wool coat. She padded over to Sherlock. She pressed her lips to the man's smooth cheek, reaching inside of his jacket. Her hand brushed taut muscle, fingernails lightly grazing his side. He inhaled sharply, straightening under her touch. Mel retrieved the phone, not letting him have too much fun; he was working, of course. The redhead pulled away, phone in hand. She noticed the man shift on the bench.
She grinned triumphantly. "It's from Mycroft." She passed it to John before making her way back to her chair.
"Delete it," Sherlock breathed.
John looked at him. "Delete it?"
"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it."
The doctor looked down at the phone. "Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important."
Sherlock glanced up from the microscope, obviously annoyed. "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"
"His what?"
"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" He went back to work.
Mel found herself chuckling at the first portion of his speech and scowling at the latter.
"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die," John sighed.
"My sentiments exactly," Mel groaned.
"What for?" Sherlock looked up again.
"This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"
Mel inhaled sharply. "Sherlock, please!"
John turned away in disbelief. Sherlock looked back into the microscope. Just then, the computer alerted there was a result.
"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed joyously. The screen was flashing "SEARCH COMPLETE".
At the same moment, a sweet looking woman in her late twenties entered. Her eyes were brown and matched the mousy hue of her hair.
The woman smiled. "Any luck?"
"Oh, yes!"
The woman turned and saw the redhead. "Oh hello!"
The dancer smiled softly. "Hello. Mel McAllister." She stood, reaching out a hand.
"Oh yes, I'm Molly Hooper."
Mel's lips stretched into a grin as the woman took her hand and shook it timidly. Her grip was slightly clammy, but the redhead didn't mind. Molly seemed like a sweet person. The shy woman's thin lips pulled up at the corners, forming a kind answering smile. Mel dropped her hand and walked back to her chair.
Suddenly, the door opened once more.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't..." An awkward man's voice came from the door. Mel froze. She knew that voice. Mel looked up. Her heart seized in her chest.
Jim. From the Royal Ballet... the only man who wasn't an actual dancer...
He was thankfully wearing brown slacks and a T-shirt, this time.
Molly stood straighter and grinned at the sight of him. "Jim! Hi!" He made as if he were about to leave but the mousy woman stopped him "Come in! Come in!"
Mel swallowed. The man ignored her completely as he walked into the room.
"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."
"Ah!"
Molly looked at John blankly. "And, uh... sorry..."
The doctor took pity on her. "John Watson. Hi."
Jim smiled. "Hi."
Mel crossed her arms and frowned. Molly turned to her. "Ah yes, and this is Mel Calis-"
"McAllister." Both the dancer and Jim spoke at the same time. Molly looked at them in surprise. Mel's emerald eyes flashed. The short man sent her the same predatory grin her gave the day of the call-back. Their eyes clashed in a silent, heated battle.
He turned back to the consulting detective, where he resumed staring adoringly at his back.
"So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"
"Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance."
Mel gritted her teeth. "So you aren't with the Royal Ballet," she hissed under her breath.
He turned back, gazing at her innocently. "Of course not! I can't dance at all!"
The redhead tightened her arms around her, as if she were trying to protect herself from the man. "Why were you there, then?"
He cocked his head to the side. "You must have me mistaken with someone else. Uh Mel, was it?"
She had the sudden urge to roll her eyes. "Yeah."
He smiled creepily. It was toothy and wide. No one else saw it. "I'll remember that name."
She shivered, willing herself not to just punch the man.
Sherlock glanced briefly at Jim before returning his gaze into his microscope. "Gay," he hummed quietly.
AGREED.
Molly's smile faded. "Sorry, what?"
The detective raised his head, realizing his mistake. "Nothing." He nodded, sending the man a fake smile. "Um, hey."
Jim smiled adoringly back at him. "Hey."
He lowered his hand and accidently knocked a metal dish off the edge of the table. He scrambled to pick it up. John turned away, not able to watch the atrociously awkward moment. Mel watched him slip a piece of paper underneath it. Sherlock watched him with plain irritation written in his features.
Jim giggled. "Sorry! Sorry!"
He giggled. He giggled. The underwear. Tinted lashes and brows. There is no way in heaven or earth that this man is not gay.
He clapped his hands, moving behind the detective. "Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, 'bout six-ish?"
"Yeah!" Molly beamed enthusiastically. The man stopped beside her and glanced back at Sherlock.
"Bye."
"Bye," Molly whispers back.
"It was nice to meet you," he stated, addressing the brunette.
Much to Mel's pleasure, Sherlock ignored him. Jim gazed at him longingly.
John broke the awkward pause. "You too."
Jim blinked at the doctor, looking awkward, then turned to leave. Mel wrapped her arms tightly around her torso, wishing she hadn't taken off Sherlock's coat. The more layers she would've had the better the situation would've been. Jim raked his eyes up and down the redhead and winked. He brushed up against her. Mel shied away. Thankfully, he left soon after.
Mel breathed out a sigh of relief and sank into the chair behind her. She frowned. The woman heard a distinct crinkling noise emitting from her jean pocket. She reached in and pulled out a perfectly folded piece of stationary. Heart thudding, the woman opened the note.
...
Hello again, Miss McAllister.
Let's play Hide-and-Seek, shall we?
Please don't bother warning your little boyfriend. I have ears everywhere and I'll have to kill all of you before our game has even begun. Where's the fun in that, Angel? Don't be boring.
You get 36 hours starting as soon as I exit these doors.
If you manage to hide from me after that entire time, I will let you live.
If I find you before... Well, I gather you can figure that out on your own.
All my love,
-M
P.S. I do love making you dance...
...
Fingers of ice clenched around her heart. She folded the paper and stuffed it into her back pocket, trying her very best to hide the fear coursing through her veins.
"-He's not gay. Why do you have to spoil ...? He's not!"
Sherlock snorted. "With that level of personal grooming?"
"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair."
"You wash your hair. There's a difference. No-no – tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear.
Molly looked disturbed. "His underwear?"
"Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand," he commented, reaching for the note under the metal dish. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here ... and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."
Molly stared at the consulting detective in complete and utter shock. She turned and ran out of the room. Sherlock looked up, completely surprised.
John groaned. "Charming. Well done."
Mel tuned the rest of their conversation out. Her mind was whirling. Did the two men not pay any attention that Jim was at the call-back? Did they not care?
Nothing is coincidence. It's the same man. He admitted that he can't dance, so why was he there? Was he following me? No... that's just paranoia... But what if it isn't? Is it connected to the case?-
"Melina, will you please share you insight with John?" There was a pause. "Melina?"
Is he's following me? Is this all about Sherlock? Is he using me to get closer to him?
"Mel!"
She vaguely recognized that John's face filled her sight. Fingers were pressed against the pulse in her wrist.
What if this is all an act? Is he an enemy of Sherlock's?
Fingers prodded the side of her throat.
Most importantly, how did he now? About Hide-and-Seek?
"Mel?" The whisper was close to her ear.
The woman jolted out of the chair, breathing heavily. The hands on her disappeared. She pressed the heel of her hand to her aching head and bit her lip.
Who the hell is Jim- or M- and what does he want from me? He's going to kill us all...
The woman felt something trickle down her chin. She brought her hand up. When she pulled it away, she saw that it was covered in blood. The redhead inhaled sharply, releasing her full bottom lip from her sharp teeth. She looked up.
Both John and Sherlock were towering over her.
The doctor was gazing at her in confusion and worry. His kind eyes took in her movements.
Mel stumbled back, putting space between them. She struggled to wipe her lip with the back of her hand, but the blood smeared across her chin.
Sherlock- who'd somehow managed to pull himself away from his microscope- regarded her with narrowed eyes. Mel could almost see the gears turning in his mind at he observed her.
There was a tremor in her hand as she stuffed the note further into her back pocket, hoping neither of the men would notice. Smiling shakily, Mel moved to the door. Her steps faltered slightly. She pressed her sweating palms against her jean-clad thighs, praying for some semblance of normality in her actions.
"Uh, I'm going to go to the washroom. I'll see you guys later."
The woman was proud that her voice barely shook. Her tone was quiet- the boys would notice that, no doubt- but it wasn't terrible.
"Melina?" Sherlock sounded so confused.
She forced herself to breathe calmly as she exited the doors.
"Mel!"
The door closed behind her, shutting her off from the boys. The dancer sent a look in both directions down the hall. It was strangely empty for such a busy hospital.
Mel ran a hand through her hair. She remembered the blood and wiped it as well as she could from her face. She looked back to the lab, thankful neither of the men had come out yet. The door pushed open.
Damn.
Her frightened eyes fell on Sherlock. His brow creased. His silver gaze ran over her, taking her in. He was attempting- and failing- to decipher what was going on.
I'll give you 36 hours starting as soon as I exit these doors.
Steeling her resolve, Mel took off running.
"Melina!" Sherlock yelled, taking off after her. "Stop!"
The dancer's boots pounded the tile floor. Her heart thudded deafeningly in her ears. She sprinted to the elevators. The doors were just about to shut. Mel slid her petite frame through the small opening. Gasping for air, she flattened herself against the back wall. The doors slid shut. She heard Sherlock's frame slam against the doors.
"Bugger! Melina!" He bellowed.
The dancer swallowed air greedily into her lungs. She glanced over. On the other side of the small space, an elderly man watched her with wide eyes. He shifted his grip on the cane he was propped up with.
"You must've been keen for the lift."
Mel chuckled, pressing her back against the wall. The cool metal bar pressed into the back of her thin grey t-shirt. "Yeah, something like that," she whispered, letting her eyes shut for a moment, just listening to the stereotypical elevator music.
I do love making you dance...
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