AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so sorry this is a day late! I was busy this week with homework and other stuff and I just lost track of time! I hope ya'll enjoy this chapter, and thanks again for commenting in the reviews! I love reading the reviews, you guys are awesome! Just a heads up: more swearing in this chapter.
The alarm on my phone raised me from the dead of sleep around nine o'clock am. I groaned lethargically and picked up my phone, squinting against its harsh light. After silencing the alarm, I saw that I'd received a text during the night.
It was from Lestrade. My heart gave a happy jump and I sat upright in my bed prior to reading the text.
It read: Hey Nicole. Sherlock can be a real asshole, huh? ;) Let's meet at the teashop near 221B just in case it blows up again, we'll have faster back up. See you at noon. Looking forward to catching up with you. – GL
I smiled at the text, though inwardly scolding my feelings. He's married. Suppress it, Nicole.
I swallowed the excitement and pulled myself up out of bed. I walked like a zombie into the kitchen and started mindlessly pouring myself a cup of coffee from a pot that Sherlock always prepared for me in the morning.
I was raising the cup to my lips when a loud BANG erupted right beside me. The coffee cup shattered in my hands, spraying coffee all over me.
I whipped around and saw Sherlock standing in the main room, fully dressed and holding a semi-automatic gun in his hand.
I gawked at him, fully awake.
"WHAT THE HELL!" I shrieked.
Sherlock calmly lowered the gun. His calmness sparked my anger to life and it spread from my core to my fingers; my hands clenched into fists.
"Don't drink that," he said simply.
"WHY THE HELL NOT?" I shouted at him, wiping my hands on my pajamas. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU COULD'VE SHOT ME!"
Sherlock just sighed with the same nonchalance that was pissing me off even more.
"Nicole, the coffee isn't safe to drink because -,"
"WHY DID YOU SHOOT MY COFFEE? YOU KNOW NOT TO PULL ANY CRAP ON ME IN THE MORNING!"
"NICOLE!" Sherlock shouted back, silencing me. "Shut up! The coffee is mixed with human blood infected with disease."
My jaw actually dropped and the fire inside me intensified tenfold.
"WHY THE HELL-," I took an angry breath and made wild gestures from the coffee cup shards on the floor to the splattered coffee on the cupboards, "—IS THERE FREAKING HUMAN BLOOD IN THE COFFEE, SHERLOCK?"
"I was experimenting!" Sherlock explained as if it were obvious. "You know I do this."
I put my face in my hands. My hands smelled strongly of coffee.
"You may not want to sniff your hands," Sherlock warned. I quickly brought my face up and held my hands out.
"How contagious is this?" I asked, worry accompanying the anger.
"Not very, but just be careful. Here, I have some disinfectant here." He picked up a bottle of Purell and walked over into the kitchen. He squirted some of the Purell into my hands and I quickly rubbed them together.
Sherlock leaned against the kitchen table and gazed at me.
"Um, sorry about that," he muttered awkwardly.
I just waved him off, still rubbing my hands together. I squirted more Purell into them and continued rubbing.
"Don' worry 'bout it," I said, very New York-like, "I shouldn't expect any different. Just hard to wake up to, that's all."
Sherlock smirked.
"Probably better than your alarm clock at waking you up."
I laughed. The anger started to fade; it felt nice.
"Yeah, no kidding."
Sherlock let out a breath and stared at the floor. He seemed tense, especially with this unnatural silence.
"You alright?" I asked warily.
He glanced up at me, apparently lost in thought.
"What? Oh, yeah. I'm fine."
I gave him a disbelieving look.
"I'm fine, Nicole, I promise," he assured me, putting on a smile. "I'm just worried you'll inevitably embarrass yourself during the waltz."
"Hey, we practiced last night, isn't that enough? I got it pretty well."
Sherlock shook his head.
"You were mediocre at best. Mycroft is highly skilled in dancing and you won't be able follow his lead."
I let out a breath of exhaustion. I was already 110% done with this day and it wasn't even noon.
"Oh, hey, I'm going to be gone at noon today," I said, remembering the morning text.
Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprised, furrowed in intrigue, and then rose again in knowing.
"Ah, you texted Lestrade last night."
I nodded, examining my coffee/diseased blood stained pajamas. The sun was pouring in through the open curtains and shining right on my pajamas, illuminating main room and the kitchen. The light highlighted Sherlock's dark curls and revealing the brown in them and it caressed the side of his face and illuminated his bright blue eyes. And right now those bright blue eyes were examining me like a specimen under a microscope and his smile was smug. He already knew what the text was about and how I'd reacted to it; I could sense it.
"Yes I did, and we're having coffee-slash-tea at noon. No comments are allowed from you, mister."
Sherlock snorted in derision.
"Can't we just get the marriage ceremony over with? What's with all this foreplay?"
I slapped him in the forearm playfully.
"Quit it. Now, are we doing these other dance techniques or what?" I asked, changing the subject as quickly as possible.
"Actually, I scheduled a case last night for this morning so we'll have to forfeit the dance lessons until later today or tomorrow."
I nodded, back to business.
"Alright, just give me an hour to shower and change clothes."
"Only an hour or I'm leaving without you," Sherlock warned, taking the pot of diseased coffee and dumping it down the sink. I was about to ask if that was hazardous when Sherlock suddenly said:
"You'd be wise to not tell Mycroft about your… friendship… with Lestrade. He may already know – he has eyes all over London – but don't broach the subject. He may be fit to burst and ruin our plans at the dance."
I looked at Sherlock inquiringly.
"Why would he get so mad? My plans are my own business."
Sherlock set the coffee pot down and looked at me with earnestness.
"I'm not sure," he admitted reluctantly, "but I know one thing for sure. He's never looked at anyone else like how he does with you." He took a breath, glanced at the floor to search for words, and the back up at me. "I advice that you tread lightly in this situation. I hate to admit it, but in desperate times like these my brother is a powerful ally that we can't afford to deal without."
I walked over to the teashop next door around 12:10pm. I assumed Lestrade wouldn't be on time so I didn't rush. I was right; the tables were all empty except for one table occupied by a couple mildly chatting over tea and scones.
The teashop was just as I remembered it four months ago. The red and white checkered table cloths, the vase with the little wilting flower sitting in dirty water, and the little silverware and pretty china were all sitting in perfect order on the small square tables.
I chose a table near the back and took off my coat and sat down.
The waitress came over to me and took my order –Café Mocha, of course – and walked away.
A few minutes passed and I began to wonder if Greg was going to show up at all. At 12:20pm, the door opened and cold winter air poured in. I looked up and saw Lestrade walking in, shivering from the cold. He saw me and came my way. I noticed he didn't seem particular excited to see me; his trademark bright smile was missing.
"Hey, Greg," I said awkwardly.
"Hi," he retorted, promptly picking up a menu and scanning it.
Yeah, he's definitely pissed, I thought with sinking guilt. I glanced at his fingers curled around the menu and saw the golden ring was missing. I was about to assume he just didn't wear it all the time, as some married couples do, but something itched inside me shouting, "Ask him!"
Not now, I told the itch. That's way too early. I have to be cautious about this.
Another awkwardly silent moment passed before Greg spoke.
"I'm getting the Caesar salad," he announced. "But I hear the Italian sandwich is pretty good."
His voice was flat and uninterested; he was just making small talk.
We never make small talk, I thought with worry. This is so unlike him. I took a brave breath and penetrated the awkwardness.
"I'm just gonna come out and say it," I began. He looked up at me expectantly. "You're pissed at me, I know it, and you have good reason to be. I've been a shitty friend and I wouldn't blame you if you held a grudge – I probably would."
Lestrade shrugged in agreement, definitely looking like he was pissed off as he glanced to the side with feigned disinterest.
"But, I… I gotta tell you something," I said. He kept his gaze away, but he waited for me to continue. "…I was just unsure about… y'know… hanging out with you because… y'know, you're married and all, and I -,"
His head snapped towards me and his eyebrows furrowed.
"What?"
I hesitated, taken aback by his sudden interruption. "I said, I wasn't sure if I should hang out with you 'cause you're married, and I-,"
"I'm not married," he said, the disinterest gone and perplexity taking its place. "Who told you I was married?"
I was at a loss; I was so confused.
"But you were wearing a ring when you came to visit me that one time," I explained, feeling more and more unsure. "Like a wedding ring."
Lestrade's eyebrows rose in understanding and a ghost of a smile was on his face.
"Oh, I was wearing that old thing so I'd remember to take it down to a friend of mine who pays you for turning in old gold jewelry," he explained, and then added, "I got divorced about a year ago, if that helps."
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place and my cheeks burned hot red. I'm such an IDIOT!
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling completely idiotic and embarrassed.
"I'm so sorry, Greg, I thought you were married!" I insisted.
"It's fine, just a misunderstanding," he assured me, his features calm. Then he looked at me inquisitively and asked, "Why would it matter that I'm married?"
My heart dropped and my blood ran cold. Oh, shit!
So I stammered like an idiot.
"Oh, y'know, your wife may have been angry to see you hang out with me – I mean, I'm sure she was a wonderful woman and that she's not crazy like that – not that she's crazy but I mean, she's not unrational – not unrational, per say, just not intelligent— I mean…!"
Greg just smiled knowingly, even a little coyly, at me so I just stopped talking and stared at my plate.
"I like you, too," he said quietly.
My insides felt all warm and fuzzy and my heart did flips inside my chest. I looked up at him and felt like I always did around him: safe and comfortable. I could be myself around him and he wouldn't judge.
"Do you want to go to the Cat and Mouse Dance with me?" he asked suddenly.
The fuzzy feelings inside died as quickly as they'd come.
I sighed and ran another hand through my hair.
"I can't," I said sadly. "Mycroft asked me a few days ago and I said yes."
Greg stared at me in bewilderment.
"Mycroft?" He asked.
I shrugged.
"He's got a bit of a crush of me," I explained, "but don't tell anyone I told you that. It might piss him off and that would be very bad."
Greg raised his brows in surprise, and then his brow clouded in… disappointment? No… jealousy? Maybe… if so, that'd be the first time for me, I thought.
"So, I guess I'll just have to steal a dance with you while Mycroft's back is turned," Greg suggested with a mischievous smile.
I laughed and agreed.
My skin was covered in goosebumps and I was sweating through my dress. Tonight was the night and I was terrified. My hands shook as I applied my makeup and curled my hair. Tonight was the night that Moriarty would come.
And I was supposed to distract him.
How the hell am I supposed to distract a world-class consulting criminal? My mind kept asking over and over. I came up with no answer except: I'll just have to wing it. Which, of course, only made my hands shake more.
Sherlock and I took a cab over to Mycroft's mansion. The ride there was a blur in my nervous state. Sherlock was talking to me in soothing tones but I wasn't listening.
I'd never been more terrified in my life. I could die tonight, for all I knew.
The cab pulled up to the mansion, which was a mammoth building made entirely marble and wood. The nighttime sky was devoid of stars with all the shining headlights of cars shining in the front driveway. I got out of the cab with Sherlock and glanced around.
Government men and their wives and government women and their husbands were stepping out limos and fancy cars in extravagant suits and dresses. I felt terribly underdressed, despite the hours spent on makeup and my hair that I had tied into a cute side ponytail that cascaded down my shoulder in delicate curls. My eye shadow matched the gentle blue of my dress and my mascara was a pitch black in contrast to my usual dark brown.
Sherlock was quite dapper in a black suit and tie, his curly locks combed to a neat bundle of waves and curls. He glanced down at me and offered a weak smile; he was nervous, too.
I returned a fake smile and turned back towards the mansion as we made our way in.
Alright, bitches, I thought, trying to rally some good ol' Manhattan spunk. Let's do this.