"I'm surprised you wanted to meet me so quickly," Giselle commented, absently smoothing a strand of dark hair behind her ears. She was prettier than John remembered – although he hadn't paid much attention to her at the club, other than a smile and a thank you for his drinks.
Here she looked less polished, the smattering of freckles that crossed her nose more evident, her eyes and lashes lighter without much make-up. If he'd passed her on the street, he certainly would have given her a second look, and he'd have never suspected she was working for an assassin.
He thought abruptly of Irene Adler, and reminded himself about deception. Adler had been at her most dangerous when she'd appeared at her most vulnerable – hair and make-up not done, wrapped in Sherlock's dressing gown.
The memory sparked a flare of anger. They'd been taken in once. He didn't intend for it to happen again.
He gave a light shrug in response to Giselle's words.
"You're a bartender," he replied. "I thought you'd have the afternoon off."
"All day," she said, arching a dark eyebrow. "Tomorrow too."
John let himself smile briefly at the comment, playing along with her intended meaning.
"Weekends are always busy," she continued. "It's always nice to have a break."
"It doesn't seem like the kind of place to host a lot of rowdy drunks."
"Yes, I thought it was your first time there. You'd be surprised," Giselle replied with a slight smile. "But here I am chattering on – don't you want a tea?"
He didn't – Mycroft had promised him he wouldn't have to – but it would look odd and the place was staffed entirely by Mycroft's people. John excused himself momentarily, coming back with tea and a caramel slice for each of them. If he was going to do this, he could at least enjoy a little part of it.
Giselle took hers with a delighted thank you and for a moment, John wondered if they'd got the whole thing wrong. If he really was here on a date with an unsuspecting woman.
The memory of the blood in Mary's apartment, of the way the key had turned so effortlessly in the lock, sent a stab of anger through him. The wire tapped to his chest seemed hot for a moment, and he resisted the urge to shift, covering his reaction by sipping his tea.
"It was," he confirmed. "I'm not a member. My friend – the American – he is."
"First time I've seen either of you," Giselle commented, arching an eyebrow.
"I'm not sure when he was last there," John replied with a shrug. "He doesn't come to London much anymore."
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
"A little more posh than I'm used to," John said with a chuckle. "How long have you been there?"
"A couple of years," she replied, confirming what John already knew. He filed that away as at least one truth – although he supposed that could be faked as well. He wondered if Mycroft had thought to enquire with her co-workers, then rolled his eyes inwardly. Of course he had.
"What about you?" she asked. "What do you do?"
"I'm a doctor." A smile played on her lips as she raised both eyebrows, and John shook his head. "Believe me, it's not as glamorous as your job."
"I did say it was your first night there," she said with a grin. "We may not be a dive pub on football night, John, but we have our fair share of unruly drunks."
"And what happens to them? Unceremoniously tossed onto the pavement?"
"Oh, there's been many times I've wished we could," Giselle replied, tracing the tip of her index finger absently around the rim of her mug. "But no. Having your membership revoked is often enough of a deterrent – most of our clients do not want their evenings disrupted by obnoxious drunks. If we have to evict you, that's the last you'll see of us."
"I'll remember to be on my best behaviour," John joked.
"Do," Giselle murmured, dark eyes flickering to the café employee who had slipped up beside their table with a quiet "excuse me" and was drawing the wooden slat blinds. "Odd," she commented, gaze following the young man as he moved to the next rain-spattered window. "It's not bright out."
John turned in his chair, watching the windows being covered, then gave her a slight shrug, using the moment to assess her as best he could. By all appearances, she wasn't a woman concerned about the sudden visual separation from the outside world. If anything, she seemed mildly puzzled. Not, John thought, the reaction of someone who was relying on a distant observer to keep in contact.
But if he was wearing a wire, maybe she was, too. How small could a hidden camera be? Certainly someone like Moran would have access to something tiny enough to go unnoticed.
The sensation of being in cross-hairs made his skin crawl, and he had to force himself to pay attention to the renewed conversation.
"For the most part, the patrons are very well-behaved. Some good tippers, too. Like your friend." John snorted inwardly, wondering how much of that had been Mycroft's money. "The man your friend was asking about – the one who was killed – he was too."
"I'm so sorry," John managed. "Of course you knew him."
"Not that well," Giselle replied. "Not from anywhere but the club – we hardly travelled in the same circles, but he was always polite, no matter what. It makes me sad, when good people go out of the world."
"Me too," John replied with more feeling than he'd intended, the memory of Mrs. Hudson surfacing so fast it was momentarily difficult to breathe. "Sorry, sorry," he said at her alarmed look, watching as a barista moved toward the door with a mop and bucket, as if to clean the floor. "My– a close friend of mine died last week. Under more peaceful circumstances, but still."
"Not Mister Adair?" Giselle asked, a faint frown creasing her features.
"No, I didn't know him," John replied.
"You didn't? I thought since your friend was asking about him, you must."
"Not personally," John replied. "My American friend did, some business venture they were part of–"
"Although we never did actually meet," a deep baritone said suddenly, and both Giselle and John looked up, startled, to see Sherlock standing there, having appeared out of nowhere. A tall, imposing silhouette in a dark coat, almost masking Mycroft's presence next to him. "And neither have we, Ms. Hanning, although I strongly suspect you know precisely who I am."
—
A flicker of his own doubt at hers. Brow furrowing slightly, dark eyebrows drawing together. Eyelashes fluttering on a bewildered blink, a puzzled light in dark eyes. The corners of lips barely pursing into a frown.
"I thought you were American," Hanning said.
"You did not," Sherlock replied levelly, and saw the flash of realization, embarrassment. Caught in a lie.
Oh, she was good.
Of course she was good.
He didn't ignore the warning at the back of his mind but refused to let it distract him. She'd opted against the role of ignorance and would try to disarm them by honesty, admitting she had played them.
Hanning glanced at John, who gave her a hard look but shrugged, then back at Sherlock, before her gaze found Mycroft. Delayed – or what appeared to be delayed.
"All right, I recognized the two of you at the club," she sighed, nails drumming once against the table. "But who are you?" The question was directed over Sherlock's shoulder, where he could feel his brother's irritatingly superior presence.
"No one of consequence."
Sherlock didn't react outwardly, catching John's quick glance upward, but savoured the words, storing the memory gingerly like a rare pressed flower and putting it up and out of reach on some distant shelf.
"How did you know?" Hanning asked.
"Your text," Sherlock replied shortly.
"What, asking John why he hadn't called?"
There it was again, and Sherlock saw it in John too – had already seen it in his friend's face once, before the false date had so mercifully been interrupted. Unbalanced. Missing a thread somewhere.
Don't, he warned himself.
"Would you like me to recite the entire conversation for you?" he asked, voice sardonic, cold.
Her eyes met his again, brighter now – for just a moment. She gave her head a little shake, gaze darting to John as if asking for something. Support? Clarification?
"I texted John and asked why he hadn't called. He apologized and suggested meeting here. I said yes. What is this about?"
She wasn't looking at the covered windows. Wasn't not looking windows either. Wasn't focused entirely on him, her attention flickering between the three men, but not timed or patterned.
Something was wrong.
"What do you think it's about?" he asked, voice still like frost – cold, brittle. No room for mercy. No room for error. Not this time.
Not now.
"Ronald Adair," she answered.
"Why is Adair dead?" Sherlock snapped back.
"I don't know," Hanning said. A single shake of her head. A palm flat on the table.
They'd been wrong.
Misreading a text message – not an entirely innocent one, but this wasn't the trap they'd believed they were stepping into.
Sherlock could feel his own doubt reflected off his brother.
Might not even be a trap at all.
"Then why are we here?" Sherlock asked.
"I'm sorry it was a set up," directed mostly at John, "but I couldn't talk at the club. Yeah, I recognized both of you – thought you were dead after that fall," that was entirely to Sherlock, "but I heard rumours."
"And you've heard rumours about Sebastian Moran." Mycroft's voice, calm and collected, as if this weren't unexpected, as if he'd known.
He hadn't, Sherlock was sure of that. It wouldn't have played like this otherwise.
"Some." She was reluctant now, but not leading them. Concerned for her own safety, afraid to say too much. "I said I couldn't talk at the club – I'm not supposed to say anything at all."
"Have you signed an agreement with your employer?" Mycroft asked. Hesitation then a nod from Hanning. "That will be seen to. Ms. Hanning, we need to know everything you know about Colonel Moran."
—
"Have you ever seen him?"
Giselle shook her head, pursing her lips slightly.
"Or at least if I have, I didn't know it was him," she amended. John caught the quiet gust of a sigh from Sherlock – impatience, irritation. He wanted information she didn't necessarily have. He wanted her to get to the point.
"I've heard his name at the club. From time to time. Whispers, really."
Whispers. John wondered if she had any idea at all how closely she was mimicking Moriarty – things said about him, things said by him.
She didn't know, of course. The wording of the text had been too similar to a taunt at the pool, and they'd fallen for it without intending to, without considering any other possibilities.
John could still remember the cold weight in his stomach when he'd read it, the slow widening of Sherlock's eyes when he'd shown it to the detective. Everything was coming back to Moriarty even when it shouldn't have been. Creating phantom links, making them jump at their own shadows.
Sherlock should have seen through it.
He would have, once.
The realization made John uneasy, made him glance at the detective's face, searching an impassive expression for some chink in the armour. He thought he saw it in the fine lines around Sherlock's eyes, in the faint crease between his eyebrows.
John wondered if it would ever end, this brittle uncertainty.
The thought of Mary made his lungs tighten again. He'd put up with whatever he had to if it could help her. Inconveniencing a pretty bartender who had information for them was a small price to pay.
"Did Adair ever say anything about him?" That was Mycroft, measured and composed as usual. He and Sherlock were sitting side by side in the café chairs, both looking out of place. Too formal and cold, like carved marble statues.
"Once that I know of, and not to me. I overheard him – I wasn't listening deliberately, but I knew by then to pay attention for Moran's name."
"What did he say?" Mycroft asked at the same time Sherlock said: "Why?"
Giselle's eyes darted between them as if trying to figure out who was in charge. John wondered how much Sherlock was celebrating inwardly when she answered him first.
"Because I knew enough to know that a number of our members owed him money, and at least one of them didn't pay. Christopher Blake. He died. A car crash in the Swiss Alps. Officially it was an accident – icy roads, winter storm, that sort of thing, but people talked about it afterwards. That's the only time I heard Mister Adair mention Moran." She met Mycroft's gaze, answering him before he could repeat his question. "He said, 'the devil never looks it'."
"How do you know it was about Moran? Did Adair say his name?" Sherlock demanded.
"The woman he was talking to did. She owed him money, I think."
"A regular at your club?" Mycroft enquired.
"Sometimes," Giselle replied. "Katheryn Dara. She's from Edinburgh – I only see her a handful of times a year. I don't know how well she and Mister Adair knew each other, so don't ask."
"Ronald Adair liked to gamble," Mycroft observed. It wasn't a question but he let it hang in the air like one, and John saw the faint flicker around Sherlock's eyes as he kept himself from rolling them.
"He did," Giselle confirmed.
"Do you think he owed Moran money?" Sherlock asked. Giselle's sudden laugh startled them all; John felt Sherlock's tension mirror his own.
"No, Mister Holmes, I don't. Believe me, you learn to read when people are desperate, especially when they're desperate about money. Especially when they've been drinking. Ronald Adair never was, and not because his family had money either. I've seen that, too, and they're always worried about being cut off. I have no idea why anyone would want him dead, but if it was about a debt, I'll bet you anything that Sebastian Moran owed him."
—
"And before you ask, I might have an idea of where you could find him," she continued. "Or at least someone who might know. There's no gambling at the club – not even wagering on races while they're being run. I know a few of the places our clients gamble, and chances are Mister Adair went there, too."
She fished a pen and scrap of paper from her handbag, scrawling an address on one side, then a name and number on the other. John frowned when she slid it across to Sherlock, meeting the doctor's eyes as she did so.
"His name is Mike. Friend of a friend. Sorry to have done this to you, John, but it was the best way to avoid suspicion. You're probably going to have to do the same, although," her eyes slid to Sherlock, holding his gaze steadily, "I suspect you're much more likely to be his type."