A/N: Happy Valentine's day. I'll be spending it at my keyboard. Read and review my lovelies. This is the end of all that I had pre-written so my updates are going to be, well, spastic.
Progress
I close the window on my journal and stare off into space. Right as I'm getting ready to dive deeper into the depression that always circles these days Billie pops her head around the corner.
"Foods up, Doc. Afraid you're going to have to bring your plate in here though." With no further explanations she disappears into the kitchen. With a rather impressive sigh I rise and venture in. The sight in front of me catches me completely off guard. The stove top is covered by a shepherd's pie frankly large enough to put an end to world hunger, along with what smells like freshly made dinner rolls, and a salad set off to the side. The table, is covered in case notes, crime scene photos, a police badge, and Billie's laptop, iPod, and phone. The clutter is something Sherlock would do, and I'm surprised to see this level of disorder from anyone else. Although it looks like a bomb made of paper and electronics has gone off, I know she has a system going. Already she is back at the keyboard with her headphones pulled over her ears and a half eaten roll in one hand. I walk past her and begin building a plate, but as I turn back to walk to my chair, I catch a glimpse of her bullet wound, the bandage is holding, but blood is seeping slowly through. I'd hoped it would stop bleeding by now. Staring at the red stain against her skin and the pure white of the bandage I can't help but feel angry at Sherlock all over again. If he would just stop his childish games, and find these killers, then we could all feel safe. Instead, we are all living in a state of worry. Lestrade called earlier to say that he had assigned an unmarked car to circle by our flat on a regular basis, and I've taken to carrying my pistol from room to room, even now its secured in its holster at my back. I haven't seen Billie carrying any obvious weapons, but something tells me she isn't walking around unarmed either.
"Billie," I gently shake her shoulder to call her attention to me. She finally stops typing and slides her headphones off.
"Yes, Doctor?", she stares at me with a blank expression, I can't help an involuntary glance at her computer screen. She's got a chat of some sort open with Mycroft, the last message on the screen simply reading.
I know your secret. Bx
"Billie, you must call me John. I've wrapped your bloody knuckles, and patched up a bullet wound, and you've pulled me from plenty of attacks, I think we can use first names," she smiles slightly at me.
"Alright, what's up?" at her open expression I hesitate. I know what I'm about to suggest is going to upset her. It's upsetting me enough as it is, but something needs to change.
"I think we should leave London for a few days. I know what you're about to say, your face is saying it all well enough. I'm not suggesting anything even semi permanent, just getting out of town until things cool down and maybe your arm stops bleeding." I watch her expression, and as I expected her eyes narrow at me and she shakes her head slightly. I'm prepared to launch into a verbal battle with her when I notice her pulling up the other tab of her browser on her laptop.
"I have to agree. In fact, I'm a bit ahead of you," Billie grins at me and shows me an image of a satellite map and points to a rooftop. "This house was my fathers. Its about an hour and half out of London, provided you follow the speed limits, and we can work from there. Not to mention that no one should be able to connect the house to us, seeing's how it is in my father's old secretary's name. We can leave by midnight tonight, if you'd like?"
"You know Billie, I'm rather glad we are on the same side," I smile at her and head upstairs to eat while I pack, calling over my shoulder, "but how are we going to get there, I don't imagine you'll want to take a cab."
A small chuckle drifts up the stairs, "No, John, we most definitely will not be taking a cab."
Flight from London
"You can't be serious," I've got a rucksack with my clothes and other necessities thrown over my shoulder, and a duffle with my laptop and a few other items in one hand. Billie is grinning at my obvious discomfort while loading her two oversized duffle bags into the trunk of what looks to be a beast of a car.
"Come on John, Lzzy won't bite, in fact she will just purr at you," now obviously gloating Billie starts loading my baggage and ushering me towards the passenger door. "She's a 1968 Dodge Charger, in pristine condition, minimal restoration and everything still factory standard. And she is my baby."
I stare at Billie as she loving runs her fingertips over the hood of the gleaming black beast sitting at the curb. I'll admit that the car is beautiful, smooth classic lines, while still maintaining the muscle look, and obviously well looked after. The man that dropped the car off is standing to the side with a look of deep amusement on his face, his American accent cutting through the foggy London night, "Easy there Doc, she won't bite and the car rides like a dream," at a sharp glance from Billie he quickly corrects himself, "Lzzy is a beast, and the kid over here can drive like hell." After listening to Billie's accent all this time I still find myself wondering at his words. An unmistakable twang laces the edges, probably the South if I had to guess. Where as Billie's accent would change even in the same sentence. She told me it was a result of moving around a lot as a child, but I've caught her drifting into a decidedly British accent, as well as dropping into a thick Scottish brogue, and an Irish lilt more than once. Another benefit to our excursion from London is that I'll be able to interrogate Billie more thoroughly about her past.
"I'll bear that in mind," I nod at the stranger before settling inside the car. The interior is done in pale gray and white, contrasting sharply with the black of the exterior. The only noticeable change to the car is in the form of an iPod dock. I shut my door and go about buckling in as Billie exchanges a few words with the man, they bump knuckles briefly then Billie is in the seat next to me, her iPod hooked up, belt on and the keys in the ignition. "You're sure you're capable driving backwards to everything you've done?" even as I ask the question she is rolling her eyes and firing up the engine. The rumble rips through the night and then settles in a low purr, I'm reminded of a crouching panther. Then she shifts with the ease of someone in their element and any further objections are slammed back down my throat with my next breath as we tear out of the city I love so well.
