A/N: Trying to churn out chapters before I fly off this Thursday. Sherlock is really in the game now, which is exciting (but difficult) to write. Will post the next chapter tomorrow after one more round of proofing. Many thanks to those who've been following this story. You know who you are. x

Chapter 14

Mycroft was sitting quietly at his desk, studying some reports that had just come in when he heard the soft ping of his phone going off. He reached for it and saw that it was from Sherlock. More specifically, it was from Sherlock's 'new' number.

When he opened Sherlock's message, he saw that it had no text but just a photo attachment. In a matter of seconds, the image downloaded. Mycroft took a look at the photo and a smile appeared on his face. The picture Sherlock had sent was the photo of Princess Turandot curtseying to the audience, after the final act.

"So, the Fat Lady has sung," Mycroft said to himself, "Don't mess this up, Sherlock."

Suddenly, a knock was heard on the door as one of Mycroft's assistants came into his office.

"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"You might want to take a look at these."

The assistant handed over a plastic folder that held a few coloured print-outs, clearly printed out from websites. Mycroft slid the papers out from the folder and viewed the contents, one of his eyebrows raised.

"Why would he have done that?" asked Mycroft to himself.
"Should I send for more security, sir?" offered the assistant.
"Hmm. I shouldn't worry too much. It might be to our benefit." Mycroft remarked.
"Our benefit, sir?"
"Yes. Despite my brother's foolishness in matters of the interpersonal, he might have struck gold with this one."
"It's all over the news, sir."

"Exactly." Said Mycroft, looking up at the assistant, "This is his proof that Ms Lancaster can trust him."

"I see, sir. So, no action required?"

"None at the moment. Just keep me updated."
"Yes, sir." Said the assistant, who turned and exited the room.

Mycroft laid the pieces of paper out before him that detailed his younger brother's most recent sensation. He smirked when he saw all the pictures of Sherlock planting a kiss on Evelyn with his hand cleverly position on the small of her back. He had to give it to Sherlock. This required endurance, and Sherlock was definitely very much in the game. Mycroft was almost proud of his brother. This was where Sherlock excelled, and to be frank, outdid him. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock's natural milieu was indeed wading in. Mycroft could only hope that Sherlock did not get stuck wading in, or worse, drowned, dragging this entire operation with him.

He wondered, with amusement, how their parents would take to such pictures. Thankfully, they were either in America or in their country house, far too far away from these kinds of sensationalised news to reach them. Still, their mother would have been amused, to say the least. Mycroft did not worry about these photos. They would serve their purpose, and that would be it. The beauty of sensationalism was that its beauty was a fast fading one. Such photos of Sherlock Holmes would not matter to anyone, at least not for long. It might catch their attention, raise a few eyebrows, but it really would not matter.

"Oh," Mycroft uttered quietly to himself.

Mycroft was not entirely correct. These pictures, this piece of breaking news, they would not matter to anyone. However, he had forgotten Molly Hooper, and Molly Hooper was not anyone.

Molly sighed angrily as she stared into the darkness of her room. Her anger mostly came from the fact that she was letting Sherlock Holmes bother her. Again.

It was one thing to experience unreturned affection from the man she loved. It was another thing entirely to see him give it to someone else. Molly laughed at herself as these thoughts ran circles in her head. Had she not promised herself not to love him anymore? Had she not promised herself not to imagine anything beyond the lending of hospital equipment and the sourcing of body parts? So what if he had done a few confusingly 'nice' things? Had they proven otherwise? Had they proven that a different side to him existed? Maybe. Maybe not.

The frustration was escalating so much that Molly half wished she could cut her own brain out and extract every part that contained Sherlock Holmes from it. She laughed in amusement at the thought of donating her own brain to him. He would probably be more interested in that than her heart. Well, he would never refuse a freshly cut heart, but that was not the sort of heart Molly had wanted to give him.

Suddenly, she heard the buzz of her phone by her bedside. Despite the lateness of the hour, she was pleased at the interruption it brought to her maddening thoughts.

You've seen the news, I presume? – MH

About your brother's shenanigans at the opera? – M

The only reason I am contacting you at all, Molly, is to inform you that they are not what they appear to be. – MH

I don't care what they are or appear to be, Mycroft. – M

You said yourself that I read you better than my brother. So take my advice when I say, let those photos not bother you. They are not what they seem. – MH

What do you propose I make of them then? – M

Nothing. – MH

Nothing? They were right. You really are an iceman, Mycroft. – M

All emotions are damaging, Molly. Unfounded ones, in particular. – MH

So I'm being irrational, with unfounded emotions, is what you're saying? – M

Bluntly, yes. Which is why, you are wasting your effort worrying about something that should not worry you. – MH

Don't tell me what to do, Mycroft. I'm not in your secret hospital anymore. – M

No, you aren't. But I promised Sherlock to keep an eye on you. I believe this qualifies. – MH

Why would you promise him that? – MH

Like I said, Molly, the photos are not what they seem. – M

What are you trying to say? – MH

I'm not trying to say anything. I'm merely protecting you, and in doing so, protecting my brother. – MH

I don't see the connection. – M

You will, eventually. Goodnight, Molly. – MH

Goodnight, Mycroft. – M

Molly stared hard at her screen and felt a twinge of guilt. After all, Mycroft had been nothing but kind to her. For him to have been sharp enough to contact her about this showed that he had her best interests in mind. Even if they were for the sake of his brother, Mycroft was doing his best to look out for her.

Mycroft? – M

Yes. – MH

Thank you. – M

She truly was grateful. It seemed Mycroft's messages had snapped her out of her never-ending, self-induced madness. The darkness did not seem like it was mocking her anymore as she felt rest slowly take over. Sleep would not evade her tonight. She was not going to let it.

The adrenalin was pumping through Evelyn's veins as Sherlock drove them to this mysterious location of his. She noticed the roads getting smaller and smaller with each turn they took. Some were narrow like alleys and had very little streetlights. The darkness increased as the number of cars on the roads decreased. Sherlock stayed silent, keeping his eyes on the road. Driving was not his forte because he felt it occupied his mind unnecessarily. Nevertheless, he was a decent driver.

"Where are you taking me, Sherlock Holmes?" Evelyn asked flirtatiously, turning to look at the detective.

"I told you," he said, smiling but with his eyes to the road, "My secret place I go to, to think."

"You are an intriguing man, Sherlock," she murmured, relaxing against her seat.
"Believe me, Evelyn," said the detective, "Not nearly half as intriguing as yourself."

Evelyn could hardly stop smiling from excitement. She had to bite her lip to stop herself.

However, as Sherlock drove on and took winding alley after winding alley, she looked out at her surroundings and felt a strange sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Where are you taking me, Sherlock?" she asked, with a laugh to mask her worry.
"It's a secret. My secret." He said, turning to give her a cursory glance.

Sherlock had already sensed the change in her demeanour from thrill to slight trepidation. When he glanced at her, her look confirmed this and he smiled to himself as he expertly manoeuvred the steering wheel. There was one last turn to make, and when Sherlock swung the car into what looked like an abandoned street, Evelyn had turned quite pale.

"We're here," Sherlock said eagerly, stepping out of the car.

When Evelyn got out of the car and took in her surroundings, it took everything in her power not to panic. She knew exactly where she was. They were at the dead end of a tiny street, flanked by the backs of two decrepit buildings. Her mind raced as she wondered why he had brought her here.

"They used to be small garment factories," he told her, looking up at the eerie brick buildings that towered over them. "Been disused for more than I can remember."
"How…fascinating," she replied, straining to smile.

"Come on," he said excitedly, extending his hand.

Evelyn took it and remembered to smile, following him as he led her to this secret place of his. As they walked, she swallowed hard, taking in his route. Even though there were no street signs where they were, she knew exactly what this place was called. She even knew the unit numbers of the disused factories.

"I can't wait to take you there," he said, turning to her with almost wild, shining eyes, "It's not a place I'd take anyone. But you…I think you'd appreciate it."
"That's very…flattering of you to say that…Sherlock," Evelyn replied. She was desperate to hide how tense she had become as he led her to one of the backdoors of the factory.

"Here we go," he whispered excitedly.

Sherlock jiggled the door handle and it opened with ease. He led her through this small black door, which seemed to lead to a stairwell. Evelyn did everything she could to mask her discomfort. Sherlock could feel the tension in her wrists and smirked to himself in the dark. Carefully, he led her down the dark stairwell that seemed to go on forever.

When they reached the last flight, it was such a relief to be in a wide, open space again. They had emerged into what looked like a large underground area that opened out to an underground canal. Sherlock let go of Evelyn's hand and quite literally skipped to the edge of the concrete where it met the canal.

"I've not brought anyone here before, Evelyn," began the detective, as he stared at the slow-moving black water in front of him. "Not many people would be willing to come here anyway. They would all automatically assume I was taking them to a sewer."

"It's a bit…too large to be called…a sewer…I think," she said, keeping the smile in her eyes as she walked over to him. She slipped her hand in his, trying to keep her cool, pretending this place meant nothing to her. Sherlock turned to look at her and made sure to smile.

"This is my secret lair, Evelyn," said the detective, spinning her around as though they were doing a waltz, "This is where my brain really spins."
"Is it?" she said, managing to laugh as he twirled her into his arms.
"I come here to think because I know that nobody could possibly know where this is." he said softly. "I like my solitude when I'm on my cases."
"So that's the secret of your brilliance, is it?" said Evelyn, looking up at him with a smile, "Solitude?"
"Absolutely. And this place offers it to me."

Evelyn's mind was starting to go blank from being distracted by her surroundings. It was getting increasingly difficult to make conversation.

"Well, I'm very impressed you managed to find a place like this…" she said.
"Do you know, Evelyn," he whispered excitedly again, "There's another way to get here."
"Is there?" she asked, feigning intrigue as she smiled widely at him.
"From Bart's," he said. "The basement below the drop-off areas. Where they deliver supplies. I found it by chance trying to nick some hospital supplies…while running from an orderly."

He laughed to himself at the memory but from the corner of his eyes, observed her reaction. Evelyn laughed politely along, but he could see from the stiffness of her smile and the curious darting of her eyes that she was uneasy. Her uneasiness pleased him. It was his tracking device, his gauge for how warm he was to what he was really looking for. Sherlock needed more reactions from her. She was the only one who held the information he needed, and he was going to lure it out of her.

"So, Evelyn…" he said softly, "What do you think of this place?

Sherlock kept her hand firmly in his, drawing circles on the skin of her wrist with his thumb. Contact was very important. It served two purposes, it always kept her slightly distracted, and it gave Sherlock access to her true reactions to situations.

Evelyn's eyelids fluttered a little too many times as she quickly put on another smile. Gazing around this large, dark space around them, she took a deep breath and turned to Sherlock, keeping the delight in her eyes.

"It's not a fancy restaurant…" she said, "But that's why I like it."

"You do?" Sherlock replied, unusual exuberance in his voice, "Well, I'm glad I brought you here then."
"So am I…" she said, lying through a forced smile.

As Evelyn continued to survey the place, gazing in supposed wonderment at this dark lair of Sherlock's, the detective kept his eyes on her, following the tilt of her head and the direction of her gaze. Despite her scattered looks of wonderment, eyes darting around the entire place, he noticed that her eyes kept flitting back to one particular area. He casually followed her lingering line of vision to the brick wall beside them. From what he could see, there was nothing unusual about it. It was just row after row of old, faded bricks. Some of them had gathered little bits of moss from the rather damp air. They were next to an underground canal, after all. Sherlock could clearly see that she was looking around as though the place was new, faking interest. However, her eyes definitely deceived her. There was something about that brick wall, and it just might be what Sherlock was looking for.

There was no turning back now. Sherlock decided to push his luck, hoping to push more signs out of Evelyn. Without warning, he pulled her sharply to himself and kissed her. Her eyes widened in shock before relaxing into his kiss.

"What was that for?" she whispered, smiling as their lips touched again.
"I was a little jealous…"
"Jealous?" she remarked with a laugh.

"Yes, I noticed you kept looking at the wall and I got jealous," he said, with a charming smirk.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock," she said, chuckling nervously, placing a hand on his chest.
"Let's look at it together then," he teased, grabbing her hand, "I want to see what this wall has that I don't."

With her hand firmly in his again, he strode over towards the brick wall. The couple stood there, both staring straight at the wall in front of them. If they had not been in this strange open-air basement of sorts, they would easily have passed off as a couple admiring artwork at a gallery.

"What does this wall have that I don't?" he asked, mockery in his voice as he turned to look at her.
"Don't…don't be silly…you," she said. Her laughter was hesitant, forced.

Turning back to the wall, Sherlock shocked Evelyn by almost bellowing at it, repeating his question.

"What do you have that I don't?" he exclaimed, only to laugh heartily afterwards.

He kept his eyes firmly forward, to prevent her from turning to him. As he fixed his gaze onto the wall, Evelyn could not help but follow suit and kept her eyes forward. When she did so, he observed her from the corner of his eyes and tried to catch where her line of sight would fall. From his well-honed peripheral line of sight, he caught Evelyn's. Sherlock saw that her eyes constantly rested at a particular patch of bricks that looked greener than the rest, almost completely covered with a layer of moss. His window of opportunity was short. As swiftly as he could, he made a mental note, counting this particular section of bricks as eight bricks horizontally, starting from the edge of the underground canal and fifteen bricks up.

Sherlock was certain he had found what he was looking for. However, he wanted to push it just a little further. Wanting to see how much more of a reaction he could garner, he began acting the fool. Still keeping with his 'wall envy', he deliberately yanked Evelyn forward with him as he stood closer to the brick wall.

"Why did you keep staring at this wall, hmm?" he murmured, as he toyed with her fingers in his hand.

Suddenly, Sherlock dropped her hand and walked right up to the wall, right where the suspicious green patch of bricks were. He let his fingers casually run over random sections of the brick wall, as though studying it. When he reached the section her eyes had lingered on, he let his own fingers linger there, but not before turning to catch a quick glance at her. Evelyn had not said a word and she looked like she was holding her breath as the detective continued to perplex her, running his hand over the brick wall.

"Lucky wall," he said, turning to smirk at her. He had pushed enough buttons and had all the information he needed from her here.

Sherlock had impeccable timing when it came to gauging people's limits. It seemed Evelyn finally got herself together and scrambled to get them out of here. She could not let him be here any longer. The fact that she had let him lead her here was cutting it far too close. He could almost see the cogs in her own head spin as her eyes shone right at him.

Without any warning, it was Evelyn's turn to pull the detective in for a kiss. She needed to distract him and grab his attention away from the brick wall. Grabbing his arm, she yanked him away from the wall and pressed herself to him, kissing him hard and feverishly. It was as though she was releasing herself of all the pent-up tension from having him brought her down here.

As she kissed him, and dragged him away from the wall, Sherlock was certain he had gotten one step closer to unlocking the lair. Mycroft was going to be pleased.

"You need to stop teasing me like this, Sherlock," she whispered to him after their lips parted.
"What do you suggest I do then?" he answered, his eyes dancing from an excitement she misunderstood.

"Take me back," she said, leaning against his chest, "And let's finish what we started earlier…"

Sherlock nodded and grabbed her hand, leading them both out from the underground hideaway. As Sherlock put the key into the ignition, he could hear Evelyn sigh quietly with relief when she sank into her car seat. The corners of his lips lifted as he realised he was only one key away from unlocking the final piece of the puzzle for Mycroft. Once this was over, he would never have to go through any of this with her again. No more physical contact, no more useless banter, no more empty praises, and no more kissing.