"Where to now, Madame?" The taxi driver asked, in very heavily accented English, as his passenger climbed into the car. Her eyes were downcast, and she hugged herself in a quiet message he so often heard in his profession: I just want to go home.

"The airport, please." She replied.

He raised a brow when he heard her voice break, and started driving.

From the rear-view mirror he could see her pull out a handkerchief from her purse.

"Are you all right, Madame?"

"I'm fine." She breathed softly, attempting a smile. "I've just been very, very stupid, that's all."

The taxi driver is, for some, a confessor: when women cry, they do so honestly; When a man is depressed, he might find solace in lamenting his woes. He will listen, maybe out of politeness, curiosity or boredom, but he will listen nonetheless...And for many, that is enough.

"When we act stupid, it is for love, more often than not...Am I right? "

Her lip quivered.

"How long have you been in Paris?" He asked. She was more reserved than some.

She looked at her watch. "Nearly four hours." She laughed dejectedly.

"Four hours? Madame, you can't stay in Paris for four hours, it's a sacrilege! You should stay at least one night. Enjoy yourself."

"But..."

"Madame, a French woman would never let a man ruin her weekend. She would put on fresh mascara, look amazing and show him just how foolish he is for loosing her. She will laugh in the face of the man who broke her heart, and it will kill him."

"I'm not a French woman." She smiled, wiping her eyes.

"Every woman is a French woman, if you know where to look. Go shopping and see Paris. Torture him with your happiness, Madame. Don't let him win."

For a moment, she seemed to warm to the idea, but then her face fell. "I can't." She sighed :"I didn't book a hotel, I wasn't thinking. How will I find a room at 1 am?"

The taxi driver's face furrowed for a moment.

"My cousin works the night-shift as a concierge for a four-star hotel near the champs élisées and Faubourg Saint-Honoré. I can ask if he has room, if you want..."

She thought for a moment, then nodded. There was no harm in checking...

He typed a number on his phone.

"Rond-Point Hotel, Champs Elysées..." A voice answered.

"Salut, Jean. Ecoute, il ya une madame ici qui a besoin d'une chambre pour cette nuit. As-tu une pour elle?"

"Cette nuit? Qu'est-ce que c'est passé? Bof...Attends...Oui, j'en ai une."

The taxi driver smiled. His cousin spoke in English and discussed fares and booking with his passenger as he drove her to the hotel.

Rond-Point is just a short distance from the Champs Elysées and from Faurbourg st Honoré. A tasteful, understated but well-kept place that would surely suit her quiet demeanor.

"Here we are." He said with flair when they reached the new destination. "Don't, it isn't necessary." He added as she started pulling out money from her purse.

"But I have taken so much of your time! You were half way to the airport..."

"Don't worry, madame. I will have my cousin Jean pay." He winked. "Use that money for your revenge. Bonne nuit, madame."

"Good night, and thank you!" She smiled sincerely.

He nodded and drove off as she walked into the hotel, where Jean would be waiting for her.

The Taxi driver typed a message:

She's in.

On the other side of the channel, a man looked at his phone and smiled.

.


.

Sherlock, John and Doctor Paten slept soundly in a nice hotel, courtesy of Mycroft, very near the British Embassy.

As they had retired very late at night, the two doctors slept soundly for most of the morning. When they awoke they found Sherlock reading a newspaper, frowning slightly.

"The new French prime minister is being sworn in." he muttered as the two men entered the room.

John tilted his head, questioningly: "I thought they had the elections last year! What happened?"

"The Ambassador."

"What?"

Sherlock looked up. " When a foreign ambassador is killed, the pm of the country where he died must step down. Another will hold the position ad interim."

Doctor Paten raised his brow "I bet the Austrian prime minister was pleased that Ambassadors Talen and Barrow were killed on British soil."

John poured himself some coffee and sat down in front of Sherlock. "I know NATO is getting involved, too. Mycroft is right, this is becoming an international crisis..."

"One we'd better try and stop." Paten was smiling, but John could see quiet determination in his eyes. "What now, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective didn't take his eyes off the newspaper.

John ran his hand through his hair. "This ambassador is dead, but this killer isn't done, right?" He looked at his friend "We need to find the next target."

.


.

Molly woke up early, after a restless night.

Groggily she walked to the bathroom grimacing as she saw her face in the mirror. She had forgotten to remove her make-up.

After a long and soothing shower, she got dressed. Molly had not thought very far ahead before taking that stupid plane, and now had no change of clothes...All the better, Molly nodded to herself, thinking of last night's advice.

She would go shopping and buy something nice, that would make her feel pretty, glamorous... French.

Then she hesitated.

Her? glamorous? Hardly!

Molly shook her head; there was no way she could pull it off. She was as stylish and refined as a mug of builder's tea...

Standing in the rain, afraid to go in.

No.

"Oh well." She shrugged. "I can be builder's tea in a Limoges teacup."

With that she walked out of the hotel, heading for the Champs Elysées.

Jean, the taxi driver's cousin, now out of uniform and on his way home, smiled and nodded at the lady as she passed.

That was a woman on a mission.

.


.

"We need to talk to the secretary." Sherlock declared, striding to the door.

"But we haven't had breakfast!" John protested.

His flatmate was already half way down the corridor.

With a sigh, John stood up and turned to their elderly aid. " Are you coming, doctor?"

Paten shook his head "I'll be more useful in the hospital. I want to run some tests, just to be sure there is no more information I can give you chaps. I will see you later." The doctor smiled as the two men left... He was really looking foward to enjoying breakfast in peace.

"Where are we meeting the secretary?" John asked, longingly sniffing the air as the smell of fresh croissants beckoned him to the breakfast room.

"Back at the embassy, in Faubourg Saint-Honoré. It won't take long. Then you can stuff yourself with all the pastries you want."

"I'm not going to stuff myself..."

"Yes you are. You're going to eat three croissants and at least two crèpes. You're worse than Mycroft."

John placed a hand on his now rumbling stomach, thankful that the Embassy was close to their hotel.

The two men walked out of the main entrance and into the streets of Paris, unaware of the woman who had, a short time earlier, crossed that very same threshold.

.


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Author's note: Hi! I forgot to mention, in the previous notes, that I don't have a Beta reader, so I apologise for any mistakes. Thank you for making it so far! Reviews and comments are Always welcome. Have a great week!