A/N: So first off to answer a question, this fic takes place after the fall, but before the empty hearse. And no, John does not have that facial train wreck. And he will not ever in my little fiction world. And as to the question "is Sherlock dead?". Don't you wish I'd tell you. :) As always, thank you for the support, read and review my loves. And who knows, maybe there will be a new chapter up before you finish this one! Probably not, but soon.


The Countryside

"I'm walking back to London," staggering up the steps of the two story house with my baggage, our flight from Baker Street replays through my head. Not only did Billie insist on trying to break all manner of land speed records, she considered a corner undrifted a corner wasted, we spent a solid half hour winding through the city, in her words "to make sure we were not followed." I had my suspicions she was just enjoyed being reunited with her beloved car.

"I'll just catch these killers on my own then, and have a nice cup of tea waiting at the flat," I could hear the smile in her voice, in fact I could almost feel it shining against my back. Standing at the top of the rough stone steps I pause to examine the house. Set off of the main road by a half mile gravel driveway winding behind a low hill, shielded from sight, the house itself was ringed by impressive pines and fir tree's scraping at the very sky. The first floor was surrounded by a porch on at least three sides, a low stone wall, made from the same rough stone as the steps, covered by a single roof. The house itself was a pale grey color, trimmed in white. The second story was topped by a peaked roof, a wide window looking out over the front yard. Large windows seemed to be the motif for this house, running along the first and second floors. Twirling her keys around her finger Billie steps past me and unlocks the door before stepping back and gesturing me forward.

Stepping inside my first impression is of space. The door opens into a kitchen that would easily take up the kitchen and living area of the flat. All gleaming stainless steel and pale wood floors, pale marble counter tops, and a island of the same wood that makes up the floor. The space is efficient, but not lived in. Billie had made a few calls and made sure the kitchen was stocked to her standards, and that various other chores had been done to make the house liveable. Other than that, the house feels brand new, as if no one had ever spent large amounts of time inside.

"There is a cleaning crew that sweeps through every week, but I've cancelled them until we leave, and groceries will be delivered every three days according to the online order. The house is set up with wifi, and has also been covered by Mycroft's people. Out here we should be untraceable, undetectable, and overall safe. The house was built by my father as a safe house for him, and our family. The windows are bulletproof, and there is a small armory in the basement. Your room is on the first floor, to the left off of the main living room. Third door down. I'm upstairs."

Journal

Sherlock, I've texted you the address of our safe house. Safe mansion more like. What it lacks in square footage it makes up for in every other possible way. Lestrade has finally come through like he promised contacting a few American friends and sending me the information on Moriarty from his days as a Harvard professor. Typical of him, teaching classes on criminals, profiling, and the like.

Billie has been going through the camera footage from the day she was shot, so far we have only the back of her assailants head, and his rather stubbly chin. With his collar turned up and a baseball cap pulled low over his brows, identifying him has become impossible. With every hour that we spend out of the city the tension climbs almost imperceptibly. Although the house hasn't been lived in for quite a while, there is still personal touches through out. Diplomas with the name Bill Walker on various walls, her father I'm guessing. Then there is a wall that is a veritable shrine to Billie. Several certificates from different martial arts groups, a sharpshooter award from an archery and gun club, and other self defense oriented groups. The basement is a training wonderland. An entire section with punching bags, speed bags, and several small targets that can be set to move about, a hand to hand paradise. A wall mounted with a multitude handguns, rifles, bows, and even a harpoon, of all things, faces a two stall shooting range. The remaining space is occupied with a treadmill, a couple of weight benches and a row of mats facing a mirror. Speakers mounted along the upper extremes of the walls allow for music to be blared at medically unsafe levels, as Billie has been demonstrating.

I don't know where you are Sherlock, or why you haven't contacted us, other than that lovely little "wrong" note, which your brother has effectively frozen in its tracks. However, this excursion into the countryside has revealed a bit more about the enigma that is my new flatmate. I do wish I had my old, and real, flatmate with me to uncover her secrets. It's time Sherlock. Time to put an end to this charade, and bring these killers down.

Thunder Rolls

A clap of thunder wakes me unceremoniously from a deep sleep, dreaming of my days as a soldier. For a second the past and present blur together, the thunder becoming the rumble of an IED taking out the rig in front of me, the lightning becoming muzzle flashes. Even as I'm reaching for my pistol on the bedstand, I come back into focus on the present. A quick check on the time reveals a black clock face, the storm must of knocked the power out somewhere. In the echoing silence, I can't help but wonder what I'm doing, out here in the middle of the countryside, running for my life, with an American girl with a bad attitude. As I lay there puzzling over the strange turns that my life had taken recently, the light sounds of guitar playing interrupt my gloomy thoughts. Before my half asleep brain can fully process the sound, a familiar voice chimes in. Billie is singing, playing and singing, at an unholy hour of the morning, and I know that I am not the only one bothered by storms. Laying there I listen as she hits a particularly soulful note, her voice breaking over as she sings of soldiers eyes, and coming home, I don't recognize the song, but it's one I would like to hear again. Eventually, I move dropping my bare toes to the ground, lightning crashes through the sky again, and the thunder rolling behind nips much closer on its heels. It seems as though we are in for the brunt of the weather, and I make my way out into the main living room, grateful for my first floor room.

The lightning hits again in a flash of white that nearly blinds me, but in the same second Billie looks up, all cheekbones and flashing eyes and curling hair, and the grief hits me harder than it has in over a year. She is so like him, in so many ways, and yet, they are so different. It's hard for me sometimes, to remember that Billie is not Sherlock. I want her to replace him. I want something to fill this hole in my heart. And yet, instead of taking Sherlock's spot, she has carved one out for herself. She's still staring at me, her fingers never breaking pattern, then she looks down and goes back to singing softly. Her soft voice haunts me as I go to the kitchen. She's singing that she will be home soon. I grab a bottle of water and listen as the last strains of sound fade away, leaving only the sound of rain pelting the roof, and wind whipping amongst the trees.

"What song was that?", I ask sipping from my water.

"Soldiers eyes, by Jack Savoretti," she answers before setting the instrument down gently. I glance at the table next to her, noting the pistol next to the glass of water. Even in her shorts and Army hoodie, she has a weapon on hand. She nods at the chair across from her and I take the hint, collapsing down.

"Well Doctor, now what?", the next flash of lightning catches her mid sip. I sigh and stretch my legs out.

"I was rather hoping that we would of heard from Sherlock by now, but as it hasn't happ-," I was cut off by a shrill ring. Billie frowned down at her cell phone and lifted it to her ear.

"What. No. I said no. Mycroft listen- No don't interrupt me you ass. No. Did you forget english you ass? Here, I'll put it in german. Nien. Mycroft Holmes do not you dare. What? Now? No. Absolutely no. I hope you crash on the way." She irritably jabbed the screen of her phone ending the call then stood up. "Brace yourself doctor, it seems we will have a house guest in the morning." At this the lights flickered back on, and she grinned grabbing her Ipod and making her way to the basement.