Disclaimer: I own nothing from Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Twelve: Nearly Trapped

Her eyes were narrow as she scrutinized his face. In his hands were the sacred documents that Adrien had requested she keep safe and all of her being wanted to know why her obstinate cousin, whom she had wished to be parted from permanently, was holding them as men stormed her burned store, searching for the very documents.

"What detail gave away the concoction?" He demanded, biting down on his pipe as he held the documents.

"Are we really going to play this game?" She sighed, slouching against the alley wall. "We haven't seen one another in nearly-many years and should we not at least reminisce and tell the other what we have been…up to."

Sherlock knew her personality far too well, even though they had been apart for many years. He knew when Rebecca Holmes (Dubois) was trying to swindle him and this was one of her more obvious and rather pathetic attempts. Smirking, he pulled his pipe from his lips and shook his head while exhaling.

"Very cunning. You want only to entertain my time with other follies than the question I have presented you with," He shot back at her. "Tell me, dear cousin."

She sighed and shook her head, not wishing to delve into the details in which she had deduced such a thing, but she found that a different approach could be taken to the question which may have been enough to make Sherlock believe it.

"It wasn't the concoction in itself, but your shoes rather," She said simply with a curt tone to her voice as she folded her arms over her chest and looked him straight in the eye.

He narrowed his eyes," What's wrong with my shoes?"

She chuckled before continuing on with the story," I have explained why your shoes told me precisely who you were on that evening. Leading me to remember the appalling beard you had on your face along with that…jacket, whose holes were much too planned and not nearly rugged enough. When I awoke the next morning, I noticed a sketchbook sitting on my bedside table and realized that only one person would have been close enough to any of those men to be able to retrieve it. Even without that detail, it was rather obvious as to who had retrieved the book. I then noticed that an entire chunk of my evening was missing…strangely enough. As if, I had been...knocked unconscious, but since I had no signs of bruises on my head, but a rather repulsive taste in my mouth that led to my stomach…I concluded that the strange savior I knew as Sherlock Holmes must have concocted some sort of chemical brew similar to those he had brewed as a teenager and experimented with as a child."

This story may have been a slight exaggeration, but by the look on her cousin's face, it was enough to turn the "wheels" in his brain. He held eye contact with her for a long period of time before saying simply," Very well, done."

Just as he was handing the papers to her, he jerked them back suddenly, much to her displeasure, and whispered, panicked," Was the jacket really that palpable?"

Narrowing her glance, she stood up straight before leaning forward and snatching the papers from his hands before he could protest and said with a very dry tone," I am a seamstress. It is my occupation to see such miniscule details in clothing."

"Interesting that you mention your career at this time," He said, gazing off into the distance, appearing very aloof for several moments. The silence was almost too perfect; it was as though Sherlock was listening for...something. Rebecca was scrutinizing his face and was about to open her mouth to question him, just when they heard the sound of rapid gunfire, but not far from the alley, but down the alley, rather. Directly toward them. "I suppose this is our cue, come along!"

Every moment with Sherlock Holmes was never dull. She could hardly even breath steadily as another bullet came spiraling through the alley. The detective was a good yard's length in front of her and she quickly sprinted, careful to run in a pattern that was not predictable. A moving target was, indeed, harder to hit.

Once she was even with Sherlock again, she asked him, already nearly out of breath," Please tell me that this was part of your plan."

"This?" He asked, looking at her. "Oh yes, certainly."

For a split second, she felt comfortable.

It was that next moment that the opposite end of the alley, the next street that they were running toward became blocked with more men, aiming heavy artillery at the both of them.

"That?" He asked, motioning toward the obvious block in the path. "I cannot say that was part of the plan, but-"

He paused as if he was crafting a plan, but they were still running and no words were coming from his lips.

"Sherlock, dépêchez-vous**!" Rebecca yelled frantically, eying the other men with a rather worried look on her face.

"Il n'y a rien à craindre**!" He shot back, pulling his pipe out of his mouth and looking into his coat pockets for some sort of answer to the current situation presenting itself in front of the both of them.

"Nothing to worry about?" She exclaimed before pulling him to his knees to avoid the shooting from both in front and behind them. A round passed before they were up again, looking about like two escaped convicts being caught. "That sounds like something to worry about. We have to surrender…its our only hope for surviving this."

He grimaced, hating the idea of Rebecca actually being correct, but he would not allow her to feel as though she had outsmarted him for long.

"Follow my lead," He muttered to her before tucking his, now dead, pipe back into his pocket, but careful to make note of where it was for later use. She looked at him, very nervously, before he slowed to a stop, allowing the troupe of men behind them to catch up in a matter of seconds. Rebecca shook her head at him incredulously…sure, he was to listen to her, but was this really as bold as they were to do it?

Sherlock slowly put his hands in the air to which Rebecca mimicked and turned so that both the men on the left and right could be plainly seen. Instantly, men on both sides of them put down their weapons and slowed their pace down to a walk, all eyes were on the two of them. Though the chase had come to an end; the air was still tense as the two groups of men merged together to circle both Rebecca and Sherlock.

"What are you thinking?" She mumbled to him, barely audible, but gruff enough for him to know that she was not pleased.

"I'm doing precisely as you told me to do," He grumbled back to her.

Before she could argue any further, a man began to yell at the both of them in French. Rebecca understood most of it, but the bit was so long and detailed that she could not pick out each and every little utterance of it. For the most part, he wanted them to dispose of any weapons they may have been carrying on their person. His rage and passion were enough to spell out what he wanted-even to a non-French speaking civilian. Slyly, Sherlock slid his hand down and snatched the documents from Rebecca's hand which she had held on to rather tightly.

"For safe keeping," He whispered to her, slyly.

Her jaw nearly dropped to the ground as she gave him another sour look. The French leader's eyes set back onto the two of them, similar to that of a hawk's. He was a short man, but he most certainly was not weak. He appeared to be rather strong for a man of his size. As he questioned them further, Rebecca noticed Sherlock become antsy.

"You are carrying weapons? No?" The man barked at them.

Instantly, Sherlock looked to his cousin accusingly, who looked at him rather irritated.

"What?" She hissed at him, wishing he would simply go along with what the man was saying and not try to bring any unnecessary harm to her.

He nodded at her to the man, practically telling him that she was armed. The men behind them closed in as their "leader" from the front stepped forward to further examine the suspected "armed" woman. Inside her head, Rebecca was swearing at Sherlock and did not cease from glaring at him. It was a habit of hers to keep a knife on her at all times, as well as enough money in order to survive for a few days time. Perhaps, it was simply paranoia, but she never wanted to take any risks with the life of the city. The weapons were

"Your companion zhinks you to be armed," The man accused with a heavily French accent, eyeing the seamstress warily. "Is zhis true?"

Rebecca stared at him for a long, hard moment before reaching into the bust of her dress and pulling out a sheathed knife before tossing it to the ground a the man's feet. He looked at her as if she had performed some sort of high-class crime and even snorted slightly while picking up the weapon.

While holding the knife, the man proceeded to examine it thoroughly, even unsheathing it to see the full blade. After satisfied, he looked back at the seamstress whilst shaking his head, as if ashamed," Zhe professor is going to be very pleased to see you."

Rebecca looked at Sherlock out of the side of her eye before turning back to the man," Well, I suppose it is time for said professor and myself to meet."

The man with the accent and rather sharp jaw line looked to the group of men holding artillery behind them," Retour à votre patrouille**!"

A chatter ran throughout the crowd behind them before the men slowly turned and exited the alley to "return to their patrolling". This left the troupe in front of Rebecca and Sherlock alone. Rebecca noticed the troupe in front of them to be significantly smaller, but this was hardly vital since they still outnumbered the two of them.

"Rechercher les fois de plus. Puis les mettre à l'arrière de la marionette**," The man ordered the troupe behind him before leaving to speak with the other officials behind him. Two other rather large men stepped forward as the rest of the group turned away to behind speaking amongst themselves. A tall and rather gruff man appeared in front of Rebecca before pushing her against the cold, hard wall of the alley and spreading her arms out.

The other men were clearly distracted as they began to chatter amongst themselves and even leave the alley, partially.

As she leaned against the wall, feeling the man's hands run up and down her, searching rather gruffly for any additional weapons. Her mind was buzzing with all sorts of theories as to how they were to untangle themselves from this fiasco.

"What is zhis?" She heard the man searching Sherlock ask, but soon after that she heard a slight clatter, which spooked both herself and the male searching her. Many thoughts were racing through her mind as she tried to think of a logical explanation to this but her thought process was interrupted as she watched the fellow searching her be taken to the ground by none other than her cousin. Observing the both of them quickly, she noticed what appeared to be a thin dart-like contraption sticking from both of their necks. Taking a closer glance, she saw what appeared to be one of her own...threading needles sticking from his neck. Time did not allow her to ask any further questions.

Her eyes looked up to see Sherlock, who was also free and was looking down at the man with the same shock that she was wearing on her face.

"What did you-" She started to ask, but when the men behind them began yelling and chasing after them again. The detective simply grabbed his cousin's arm and began running once more. "My needles are not to be used for such-"

A gun shot interrupted her sentence, causing them both to duck down.

"Acts of violence!" She hollered at him, after they were on their feet once more. "How did you even manage to do such a-"

"Pardon me, but I do believe your needles, just saved the both of us from a very precarious situation," He said back to her, very primly as they quickly reached the end of the street, several uses of French swear words being thrown about from the men behind them.

A/N: I wanted to add so much more to this chapter, but I feel as though the next chapter will be very long. I will update as soon as I can, but I am just so stinking busy right now that it's not even funny. Thank you for reading and I will try to update ASAP!

Translations:

dépêchez-vous (hurry up)

Il n'y a rien à craindre (There's nothing to worry about)

Retour à votre participle (Return to your patrol)

Rechercher les fois de plus. Puis les mettre à l'arrière de la marionette (search them once more then put them in the back of the vehicle)