Where'd you wanna go?
How much you wanna risk?
I'm not looking for somebody
With some superhuman gifts
Some superhero
Some fairytale blis
Just something I can turn to
Somebody I can kiss
I want something just like this.
XXX
She tugged at the zip on the dress. It was beautiful, well beautiful for the kind of dress a girl wears for a hen's night. Okay, it wasn't even a dress – more like a matching crop-top/skirt combo – she'd just told her father that it was a dress when she came home with both items in a carrier bag because she knew he'd likely kill her if he knew the outfit she actually planned to wear. He'd either been stupid enough to believe her (unlikely) or trusting enough to let her get away with it so she'd hidden it – the whole outfit – until long after her father had left for John's bachelor party.
She smiled at her miniscule act of rebellion as she slid her feet into her matching royal blue pumps. She was clinging to the idea that she'd been – just a little bit – rebellious and it was entertaining. She grabbed her keys and phone, shoving them both into the small clutch that matched her outfit before walking out the door of 221B.
XXX
She informed the barman of the order (three Cosmopolitans, a Manhattan, a Martini, and a whiskey, her whiskey) – it was her round this time – and she smiled, tapping her fingers on the bar as she waited. "You come here often?" she heard from a Scottish accented man – a Scottish accent from somewhere close to the border if she was correct.
"Not really, hen's night," she answered, her smile bright, her cheeks rosy from the number of drinks she'd already consumed (five at last count). "My friend, Mary, is getting married. I mean, that's kind of obvious otherwise I wouldn't be here, in a bar, on a hen's night," she told him, giggling slightly – she blamed the alcohol. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch your name," she added, purposefully dimming her smile slightly – this wasn't her first rodeo.
"Jack, and you?"
"Imogen, Imogen Holmes," she answered, a blush colour creeping onto her cheeks as she hoped and prayed that he hadn't heard of her father or recognised the surname.
If he recognised the name, he certainly didn't show it as he asked "And what does Imogen Holmes do for a living?"
"I'm a consultant of sorts, and you?" she answered vaguely, she'd learnt fairly quickly from Molly's experience that the phrase 'I deal in dead bodies' never went down well with men.
"I'm a lawyer," he said shortly. Based on his age and the fact that his hair was slightly unruly, she guessed he was a 'just passed the Bar exam' sort of lawyer. Still, she took a napkin off the tray of drinks she hadn't quite realised had been placed beside her. Taking a pen out of her clutch – she always kept one with her – she began to write something down in her simplistic, legible handwriting on it before handing it over to him. "What's this?" he asked, just slightly confused.
She giggled, "It's my number," she informed him before walking back to the group of Mary's friends, carefully carrying the tray of drinks.
"Who is that?" Janine asked, making certain that she'd gotten a decent enough and Imogen blushed slightly, "Ah, I get it, I'll back off," the Irishwoman stated as she grabbed a hold of her Manhattan.
XXX
Imogen had not expected to end her night helping Molly drag both John and Sherlock – both of whom were ridiculously inebriated – into 221B. That was what had just happened when Jack called her mobile and left a voice message. Once she'd made sure that both her father and John were in bed asleep and Molly had gone home, she decided to listen to it "Hi, not sure if you remember me from the bar a few hours ago, it's Jack by the way, but. . . Oh, I'm not used to doing this. My friend would kill me if he heard that I'd broken his stupid three-day rule. Umm, I was just wondering if you wanted to go out with me sometime? No, probably not, you've probably got men beating down your door for a date," he finished off leaving her giggling at the sheer nervous shake in his voice.
She dialled him back and smiled as she said "So, I don't have men beating down my door and I honestly have no tolerance for stupid dating dames. So, I suppose your in luck," she said cheekily "And, if it's any help, I don't really do this sort of thing either," she added, hearing the sigh of relief on the other end of the line.
XXX
Imogen had – eventually – decided on an emerald green dress which puffed out slightly at the waist. Applying a third and final coat of lip gloss as she leant over the bathroom sink, she smiled to herself, glad that her father was away with John on a case up in Yorkshire. She remembered the last time her father and John had gone away for a case all too well – namely because she'd gone too.
XXX
It was late at night, she knew that much. She'd given up trying to figure out what time it was the moment she'd been dragged out of her bed and forced to wander the woods behind the Baskerville Research Centre.
John was first to panic and she momentarily wondered whether he was having a flashback to the war – given that he'd once had a psychosomatic limp, it wasn't a stretch too far – but then she heard it, the howl of a dog. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't have been concerned but the case was anything but normal. "Jesus Christ, where did that come from?" she screeched, glancing around her, trying to find out where the sound had come from. Her father merely held her close to him, knowing it would be of comfort to her.
XXX
She shuddered at the memory of it, there were two things she had an immense dislike for: her own fear and not knowing something. That night had combined both and she wasn't exactly a big fan of that.
XXX
"So, what type of consulting do you do?" Jack asked as he sat across from her at the table. She smiled, the film really had been good – even if the villain did look a little like her father – and she worried that if she told Jack what it was she did for a living – aside from the occasional filing for John – she would scare him off.
"Umm. . ." she stuttered. Was the truth really worth it? Was Jack the kind of man who would be freaked out by it? She barely knew him, how could she gauge his reaction before it even happened? "I consult for the police," she admitted somewhat cryptically. She didn't have to tell him the whole truth.
"And is that. . . interesting work?" he responded and Imogen bit her lip, trying to figure out what he meant by that response.
"It's. . . challenging, the people I work with are nice enough. Well, except Donovan but that's because she feels like she knows everything and just about hates it when I prove her wrong. Sorry, I'm rambling. Anyway, what about you? What kind of law do you practice?" she queried, quickly ensuring she'd changed the subject far enough away from her job to be in the safe zone. Alec had been studying early childhood education which, while rewarding (she supposed) wasn't the sort of thing that stimulated her intellectually (maybe it was the way he explained it), so this was a break.
"Criminal – defence," Jack responded before being cut off by the sound of the Imperial March from Star Wars – she'd changed her uncle's ringtone after the almost-bombing.
Imogen rummaged around in her bag, infuriated by the very idea of the phone call, "I'm sorry, it's my uncle. He's over-protective and if I don't answer, he'll call in the cavalry," she apologised before answering the call, "I'm on a date so unless someone is either dying or dead, I don't want to hear it," she whispered into the receiver.
"How about a member of the British Royal Family being extorted by an unknown?"
"I'm listening, which one?"
"I'm afraid I can't say."
"Doesn't matter, it's probably Harry. Send one of your embarrassingly large cars to The Ivy and we'll be on our way," she hung up before she could hear any of her uncle's protestations. She turned to Jack and said "I'm afraid we'll have to relocate."
XXX
She stood with Jack in a sitting room in Buckingham Palace. He glanced around nervously and Imogen had to cover her mouth to prevent the borderline inevitable laughter threatening to expel itself from her mouth. "So, we're here why exactly? Because I have an urge to nick an ashtray," Jack eventually said and Imogen actually laughed at that, it was so similar to what John had said the first time he'd ended up in the same room.
"Before you meet my Uncle Mycroft, you should probably know that he basically is the British Government and Secret Service and, from time to time, I consult on cases for him. Now, in about one minute, Uncle Mycroft will walk through with Robert Blakely-Smith, the Queen's Private Secretry – not his real name – and a dossier containing details regarding a case, a case I'm not actually supposed to discuss. Once they give it to me, we leave and I'm supposed to start work on it immediately," she explained, knowing full well that she had no intention to start work on it until the morning, she never started a case until she'd had at least a half decent night's sleep. She smiled upon seeing her uncle walk into the room accompanied by Robert Blakely-Smith, "Uncle, Mr Blakely-Smith," she said, cordially greeting each man in turn with a nod.
"Miss Holmes, it's good to see you again, although I wish it were under better circumstances," Blakely-Smith said, a jovial smile on his face.
"I agree sir, how is your employer?" she asked, making the small talk she hated.
"She'd be an awful lot better if she had that ashtray back," he suggested. She stole a glance at Jack who looked at her in bewilderment.
Imogen smiled, "I'll have a talk with my father about that, shall I?" At this point, her uncle grabbed a hold of her arm but she quickly shook it off.
"Imogen, do you really think it appropriate to bring your date to a meeting over such a sensitive case?" her uncle asked and she smirked.
"I'm sorry, let me introduce you. Uncle, this is Jack Henderson, a criminal defence lawyer. Jack, this is my uncle, Mycroft Holmes and Robert Blakely-Smith, the Queen's Private Secretary," she made her introductions and watched as her uncle raised his eyebrows in something akin to surprise – the closest to it she'd ever seen on his face. Smirking, she added "So, extortion care of an unknown, let's see what we can do shall we boys?"
XXX
As they were leaving, Imogen decided to ask her uncle the question on her mind "Why are you so adamant that you're not going to John and Mary's wedding?" She was stony-faced as though this meant something, and it did.
Her uncle sighed, as though the question were a massive annoyance to answer "Not this again."
"Yes, this again. Greg really loves you and he doesn't want to go to the wedding alone, so go on, tell me why."
"It's not as if John and Mary are my friends, is it? They don't want me there."
"John thinks you're close enough, and Greg, a man who is completely in love with you, does want you there but he's too shy to say it because. . . well. . . feelings, they aren't his strong suit and they aren't yours either so. . . look, just think about it will you? For me?" she pleaded.
XXX
Imogen and Jack decided to walk back to Baker Street despite Mycroft's protests over how dangerous London could be at night. Still, Imogen ignored him as she did far too often and insisted that she and Jack walk. "So. . . that's your uncle," Jack commented, desperate to make small talk after the meeting they'd just had.
"You can say it, go on, he's an unfeeling git, I know," she teased before grabbing the ashtray she'd 'borrowed' while no one was looking. "Here you go, that ashtray you were thinking of nicking. Payback for them not providing cakes, they won't miss it. Just be thankful he didn't try to deduce you."
"Deduce?"
"It's this thing he and my dad do – I do it sometimes as well it's about using the tiny details about a person to figure out who they are and what they've done – hence the reason I've been able to make a living."
"For instance?"
"Okay, give me your watch for a second," she ordered and looked at her oddly before handing it over. She turned it over in her hands. It was gold, heavy, expensive. She looked at the face – Cartier was emblazoned on it, definitely expensive then. She flicked it over carefully and took note of the small inscription that read 'Jack, Mum and Dad would be proud, Elsie X', her eyes widened with sadness for the man stood beside her. "It's expensive, solid, a gift. Barely a scratch on it either, so you don't wear it often. The engraving gives a bit more away. The way it's written tells me that it's from a sibling, one who cares a great deal for you. The phrasing would suggest your parents aren't alive anymore and given their predicted pride, I'd say it's for graduation," she surmised as gently as possible.
"You're right," he admitted, and it was all he said for the remainder of the journey back to 221B. Thankfully, the silence wasn't awkward – just the opposite in fact – which was weird because she was so used to silences being awkward, so used to being the cause of that awkward silence. Alec had once told her that it was because she had a deep-seated need to know everything about everything and everyone (a trait she was convinced she'd inherited from the Holmes side of the family) and it always made her feel inferior. She wanted to tell Jack about it – how her ex made her feel but she didn't want to dump her own emotional baggage on him, not when he'd just revealed his own.
When they arrived back at 221B, she heard gunshots which meant one of two things: Either her father was home from Yorkshire early and bored already or Mrs Hudson was being shot at. "We should call the Police," Jack announced, digging around in his pockets for his phone.
"Don't, it's probably just my dad," she responded with what was possibly too much resignation. Jack looked at her, confusion echoed in his features, "What? He shoots the wall when he's bored," she said as if it were perfectly normal. Opening the front door, she ran up the stairs, Jack trailing behind her. She popped her head through the doorframe and saw her father, blindfolded, shooting bullets at the wall "Case ended early then?" she sighed "And why are you shooting the walls?"
Husband was cheating on his wife, simple really – definitely not the nine I was told about," he responded as he removed the blindfold.
"Have you eaten yet?" she inquired, knowing full well that unless food had been forced upon him, her father was highly unlikely to eat.
"Yes, Molly made me eat some of that horrid food they have in the cafeteria at Barts when I dropped by."
"Which body parts did she give you this time?"
"I'm sorry. . . body parts?" Jack said, his first words since entering the flat.
"Yes, sometimes I use body parts for experiments," Sherlock answered, "Sherlock Holmes, and you are?"
"Jack Henderson, Imogen's date," the lawyer answered confidently.
"And before you ask, he only came up because he was concerned about my potentially going into the line of fire caused by your experiments," she pre-empted.
"Do you always introduce your dates to your family on the first date?" Jack asked, intrigued by the night's turn of events.
"No, she doesn't. Why? Who else have you met?" Sherlock asked, wondering how the young man would stand up to his scrutiny.
"The British Government and Secret Service," was the self-assured reply.
XXX
Jack stayed at 221B until the early hours of the morning, he got along rather well with Sherlock – too well, Imogen thought. For goodness' sake, her father even offered him a glass of whiskey, she hadn't even known they had whiskey.
Imogen opened the file her uncle had handed her the night before. There wasn't much that had actually been done but she knew exactly where to start: Follow the money. She just needed to borrow someone with experience in forensic accounting which meant dealing with (ugh) Anderson. Hence the reason she was sat opposite him in Scotland Yard's cafeteria, "Fancy helping me out with a case?" she asked casually.
"What kind of help?" came the far more suspicious than necessary reply.
She rolled her eyes, "Just the tiniest bit of forensic accounting," she pleaded "All I need you to do is find out who this account belongs to," she said, passing a slip of paper across the table.
"This isn't police business, is it?" he said, passing the paper back.
"No, but it is for Queen and Country," Imogen tried, "Please, I'll make it worth your while," she begged in a sing-song voice, sliding the piece of paper back to him. Anderson raised his eyebrows and she took a notebook out of her handbag "This is my dad's casebook and – given that you're a member of The Empty Hearse – I figure it'll intrigue you," she added, handing the book to him "And I won't tell your wife about your little escapades with Sally."
"You wouldn't," he growled and she smirked.
"I'm a Holmes, you know I would."
"Fine," he relented.
She could have kissed him but she didn't, choosing to smile and thank him with all the exuberance an eighteen-year-old can possess. "By the way, you might want to make a decision on the wife/Sally front. I mean it's been about four years already," she suggested gently.
XXX
Anderson had, by some miracle of extremely good luck, pulled through and not only gotten her a name but also a phone number which she had just dialled. Once the person answered, she began her spiel "Hi, is this Gemma Taylor-Jones?" she asked and, upon receiving the affirmative, continued "I'm Sophie Picoult, I work for HSBC's fraud department. Something regarding your account brought up a red flag and I'm just wondering whether we could discuss it."
"Really? I promise I haven't done anything wrong," the woman responded quickly – too quickly, as though she'd been expecting something like this to happen.
"Look, sometimes these things come up, normally it's just an account transferring from Switzerland and it flags our system but it's better if we meet just to firm everything up," Imogen reassured, her voice having affected a tone of professionalism.
"Okay," the woman agreed suspiciously.
XXX
Imogen dumped the file on her uncle's desk, "Her name is Gemma Taylor-Jones, she's an as yet unsuccessful West End actress, both parents are dead, and she has no next of kin. She's regularly seen in nightclubs and, based off of the years' worth of bank statements Anderson managed to get me, she's been extorting men for a while."
"How do you know that?" her uncle asked, he looked pale, paler than usual which as concerning because Holmeses normally only ever went pale when they were genuinely ill – it was how she'd once figured out that her grandfather had had a heart attack despite the fact that nobody had thought to tell her.
"I followed the money. It doesn't matter. Look, are you okay? You seem pale."
"It's nothing, Greg's got me on this new diet is all," Mycroft lied, Imogen knew he was lying too – when he lied, Mycroft looked everywhere but at the person he was lying to.
"You're lying, you're sick and if you don't tell me what's going on, I'll get Nana to ask your doctor."
He sighed, relenting. "My years of drinking have taken their toll it would appear, dear niece. All Holmeses have their vices; your grandfather's is losing things, your grandmother's cigarettes, Sherrinford had women, your father's... well you know what it is and mine is alcohol. According to my doctor, I only have a year before my liver goes completely I'm afraid," he explained and Imogen nodded, puzzle pieces finally starting to fall into place "He says my only hope is to have a liver transplant,"
"Does Greg know?" she asked, showing far more concern than any of the Holmes family was used to.
"No and you're not going to tell him either,"