I genuinely cannot thank you enough for your lovely reviews. They gave me a much needed boost of encouragement (and serotonin). Sending so much love. ALSO, HAPPY AUTUMN! *air horn air horn*
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The wind whipped my hair as John, Sherlock, and I strolled along the River Thames whilst in spirited conversation. The sky was murky with the day's brewing moisture, though the nebulous orange light of the morning sun was still attempting to burst through the hazy clouds.
"Halloween is in October." I stated firmly.
"… Since?" Sherlock inquired.
"Loaded question," I pursed my lips in thought, "depending on which festival or tradition you decide to trace back and in which country, but short answer? A long damn time, Sherlock."
"I'm willing to bet that the man hasn't once dropped a Mars bar into a pillow case." John added with an exclamatory point of his finger.
"Perhaps you'll give it a go this year, seeing as you now know it's not in August?"
"Reward children for coming to our door?" Sherlock confirmed with a grimace.
"Just hand out toothpaste then. That will almost instantly achieve the opposite effect." I shrugged.
We could hear another mighty gust of wind in the leaves of the trees above us before we felt the rush of it on the riverwalk.
"To 'ell with this!" A nearby man declared as his paint brushes tumbled to the ground. He grabbed the easel and canvas he had been painting as he woefully kicked the fallen tools and marched off with a tight lipped frown.
We walked briskly to New Scotland Yard (this time without a parking garage disturbance), making the meandering journey through its hallways until we reached Lestrade's office. We (or rather, Sherlock) received the usual sour glances from those that we crossed paths with on the way. Sherlock wasted no time in opening Lestrade's door and looming expectantly across from his desk - John and I followed, giving Lestrade apologetic smiles and waves on behalf of our companion.
"Morning." He said flatly, eyes not hiding his exasperation.
"Oh, you expected us - no need for the indignation." Sherlock insisted.
"God forbid I receive the courtesy of a polite knock."
John, who was closest to the door, stuck a fist behind his back and rapped it with his knuckles.
"Cheers." Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Right then, where shall I start?"
"The woman, please." I urged, taking a seat.
"Ah, yes, the hostage. She's physically well - can't quite speak on her current mental state. Two men breaking into your home and strapping enough explosives to you to take down The Royal Albert Hall would shake a person to say the least," Lestrade unearthed a sheet of paper, letting his eyes briefly scan its contents before he delicately slid it across his desk, "She was told to phone you specifically, Sherlock, and to read from this script."
"Any deviation from what's written and it would have been goodbye metaphorical Royal Albert Hall." Sherlock observed.
"And if you wouldn't have cracked the case." John noted. Sherlock grunted in agreement.
I pulled the paper towards us so John and I could both scrutinize the unassuming type. Sherlock stood behind us with two fingers connected underneath his nose. I internally shuddered as I envisioned being in the hostage's position - this very page certainly having been burned into her memory and likely to haunt her for the rest of her days, in both waking moments and in sleep.
"Any more action in your building?" Lestrade questioned.
"No," I replied, my brows still furrowed as I read the sheet of paper with my cheek resting on my hand, "all's been mostly quiet on Baker Street."
"Regent's Park, however…" John muttered under his breath.
I shot him a small, knowing grin just before a mobile sounded from behind us. My expression turned from amusement to uncertainty, which was also visible in John's features as we turned to face Sherlock. He had the pink phone in hand as it alerted us that it held one new message. Four Greenwich pips sounded before Sherlock lowered the phone to our level with a knuckle resting on his lip in thought.
"Another photo?" Lestrade probed.
"Yes. Abandoned, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock commented. I squinted at the picture on the screen: a car. What was most striking and unsettling in my eyes was the fact that the license plate number was clearly visible. It seemed all too obvious after what we had been given previously.
Lestrade clicked his tongue as he narrowed his gaze and surveyed the image for himself, "Not yours, Evelyn?"
"Not this time."
"I'll run the plate number through the system - see if it comes up as a missing vehicle." He stated, lightly patting his hand on the table before heading over to his computer.
"Oy - this is for you." Someone stated brusquely from the doorway. I turned to see a woman handing Sherlock yet another phone.
I put my hands on the arms of my chair as I sat up straighter in my seat, taking note of every feature and nuanced expression on Sherlock's face as he stated, "Hello?" before walking out of Lestrade's office. Instantly, I felt suspicious. I stood concernedly, following him in taking leave. The pit in my stomach that was, these days, seemingly impenetrable and always faintly there, rose to prominence once again. I stood halfway in Lestrade's doorway as I continued to observe Sherlock's reactions from across the room. I was shaken from my concentration when John sidled up to me in my peripherals.
"It's got to be another one." I said with a troubled frown.
John wordlessly nodded in Sherlock's direction as a sign that we should head his way.
"Who are you? What's that noise?" We heard Sherlock quietly command as we stepped closer. We stood in silence as Sherlock listened until the caller seemed to end the call abruptly, "Hello? Are you still there? Hello?" Sherlock bit his lip and furrowed his brow as he stared at the dark screen.
"Tell us in a few." I broke the silence and motioned for them to follow me back into Lestrade's office, "Find anything?" I asked, knocking on the doorframe and eliciting an appreciative smirk from the detective inspector in response to the gesture.
"Just got off the phone. We've found it." He stated, surveying his desk and rubbing his palms together as he walked towards the door, "Oh, hold on!" He remarked abruptly, sticking a finger in the air and pivoting in place, "I knew I was forgetting something."
"We don't have time for this." Sherlock stated restlessly. I looked up towards him, instantly feeling deflated as I thought about the possibility of facing yet another high stakes curfew.
"Just a second." Lestrade grumbled as he pushed stray papers aside and opened miscellaneous drawers.
"Twenty three, twenty four, twenty five…" Sherlock drawled.
"Gotcha. I nicked this - er, obtained this for you." Lestrade stated, handing me a slip of paper.
My eyes widened and my lips stretched into a grin as I read what was printed on the card, "You pilfered an annual parking pass for us? I'm honored."
"I was planning on giving it to you for Christmas, but figured I'd save you lot five months of paying at that dingy place down the road."
"This is incredible, Greg, really. I can't thank you enough."
"We can exchange meaningless pleasantries on the way, can we not?" Sherlock complained with a wry smile.
"We'll take a van. Donovan! You're coming with." Lestrade asserted with a beckoning point at a woman I'd only ever seen sport nothing but an embittered expression, though I was very cognisant of the variable that was my only entering New Scotland Yard with Sherlock Holmes.
"Where're we headed?" She inquired.
"Down the river a ways. Wilkins, McNair, why don't you tag along." Lestrade added, clapping his hands on the shoulders of two strapping young officers.
"A ways?" Donovan repeated with a critical tone.
"A ways. If you'd rather go back to your desk and do bookwork, be my guest." He cautioned.
"Not complaining, just ascertaining." She said through a forced grin.
We kept up with Lestrade's deliberate strides as we walked through starkly lit hallways and a series of secured doors before exiting the building and piling into one of their vans. I crawled into the back seat, expecting Sherlock to take a more front row position and feeling surprised when he and John jumped in next to me. Lestrade drove with Donovan stationed in the passenger seat and Wilkins and McNair in front of us. I assumed they were new hires as they radiated a timid energy.
Though the weather was still rather cool, the van was stuffy, and I instantly cursed myself for selecting the row furthest from any airflow and with windows that wouldn't open. Lestrade turned the radio on at an annoyingly low level and communicated infrequently with officers on his cellphone, but aside from this we sat in a comfortable silence as we pulled into traffic. I leaned my head against the window as the van rumbled over a bridge, listening to Wilkins and McNair chat about the pros and cons of every pub near their place of work. When they lambasted a pub called The White Hart, John apparently had no choice but to join the fray and come to its defense.
"Eight hours." Sherlock leaned over and said in a hushed tone.
I turned towards him, not yet meeting his gaze but staring at his hands as they rested on the hem of his coat, "I had assumed it was another hostage, but please don't hesitate in telling me that I'm wrong."
"Hesitate in telling someone that they're wrong?" Sherlock reiterated. I finally let my eyes flicker up towards his face, which was complete with a curious brow and hint of a grin.
"Too out of character?" I returned, cracking a faint smile as well.
"I'm afraid this isn't an opportunity for correction. It was a man this time, and the call came from outside - somewhere urban, filled with noise. Filled with people."
"Then what are the odds he isn't in London?" I asked, feeling a sort of chill reverberate through me as the familiar cityscape passed by.
"If they think an eight hour time frame is appropriate? Slim to none." He stared determinedly across the river where our hostage was likely stationed and stricken with a level of panic that was unknown to most.
"Did he say anything of note?"
"There are details to be found in every subtlety. Everything is of note."
"You know what I mean."
"No," he sighed, "he did say it's okay that we've gone to the police, but not to rely on them."
I didn't smile, but couldn't repress the twinkle of mirth in my eyes as I overtly shifted my attention to our current company and our roving confines.
"This isn't relying on them," Sherlock said firmly, "we're simply… utilizing their resources."
"I didn't say anything." I replied amusedly, struggling to cross one leg over the other in the cramped and crowded backseat. Sherlock expelled air through his nose in annoyance as he attempted to shift his own knee over to assist in the adjustment.
"An entire paragraph can be condensed into a single glance."
"Can it? Then tell me what I'm 'saying' now." I raised my chin and searched his eyes.
"Are you being serious?" He asked with a tone of skepticism.
My brows lifted slightly.
"'Yes.' All right, throw me something more substantial then." He replied impatiently.
I lightly bit my lip as I formulated a meaningful enough thought. I tucked my hair behind my ear and channeled my current musings into a single expression, trying not to smile at the scenario as Sherlock pensively analyzed my features.
"The Red Lion is overrated!" He finally stated confidently, much louder than our previous ramblings.
"Oy!" Wilkins remarked from in front of us, placing a hand on the back of his seat as he animatedly turned around.
"Utter sacrilege." McNair added, Sherlock having just bashed the joint they had been in the midst of raving about.
I clasped my hands in the lap of my dark brown trousers and focused on them as I tried to contain any laughter while Sherlock met the conversational wrath of the enthusiastic pub goers. He looked disconcerted as John began listing on his fingers reasons why The Red Lion was a "high-calibre establishment."
"You did that on purpose." Sherlock grumbled, physically pushing himself further back into his seat and attempting to tune out the boys' conversation once again, even though he was now on the receiving end of their hurled opinions.
"I did." I grinned.
"You don't think it's underrated."
"Not at all," I leaned in closer and rested the back of my hand on his coat sleeve covered upper arm, "at least we've established that you can aptly read faces and that I can successfully lie without the use of words."
"More of an education than I ever expected to receive in the back of a police van." Sherlock replied sarcastically, grasping my hand and effectively flicking it back onto my lap out of what I perceived as forced petulance.
I chuckled lightly, resting my head back as pedestrians, lush trees, and ornate stone architecture flitted past, the monotonous grey skies paired with the movement of the vehicle making my eyes grow heavy. The car journey didn't feel tremendously long with thanks to London's varied and always unpredictable urban scenery. At one point, Lestrade whipped the car to the curb and parked, jostling us all from our light dozing as we realized he was flailing his arms while in pursuit of a teenage boy who had been leaving his mark on an old deli with a can of graffiti.
"Lousy kid." Lestrade muttered, climbing back in.
Because the backseat was tight quarters, the three of us sat mostly flush together. I felt Sherlock fidget slightly, discerning it was because of the impromptu delay. "Surely we're almost there." I remarked softly, which turned out to be entirely true. Minutes later we rolled up to a secured area of the river where the car was sitting, being tended to by another group of officers. John frowned with tight lips and raised his hands in a sign of defeat as Sherlock wriggled over his knees to exit the vehicle first.
"D'you reckon anyone would notice if I just stayed here?" John asked flatly, letting his hands slowly fall onto his thighs before they curled into fists.
"Don't make me crawl over you too," I sighed, letting my head fall onto the seat-back in front of me as I observed the happenings outside, "Though, to be fair, I don't think anyone would notice if we both stayed in here."
"Mm. Sherlock might." John replied.
"Sherlock?" I exhaled sharply in incredulity, "I'd be willing to bet a fiver he wouldn't. The tunnel vision is palpable today."
"He likes you more than you think." John offered reflectively.
"Do you know something I don't?" I scrunched my forehead as I neglected to vocalize any of the many questions that instantaneously began swirling around in my head.
"Doubtful," He smirked, "but I sense… something, I guess." He stated slowly.
"Don't make me bet a second fiver"
"It's just a flatmate's intuition." He persisted, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Expound, please."
"It's nothing, I just - well, I would never use the word 'fancy' in regards to Sherlock Holmes, and there's no basis to this, really, but I just get the overall impression that he's… curious about you."
"Curious? Oh, you've dropped a real bombshell, John." My words were dripping with sarcasm, but my cheeks betrayed me with a flush greater than what the stuffy van alone was capable of.
"A little reverence for the context of the last couple of days, please." John replied jokingly, matching my dry tone.
"If anyone's allowed to joke about bombs…" I raised my eyebrows as John snorted while overtly gauging my reaction as a basis for how he should respond. Dark humor was the only coping mechanism I found even a sliver of solace in at this point.
"I don't think you understand. For Sherlock to be interested in someone… He's quite possibly the world's most inquisitive being by nature, but tell me, how often is it that he expresses interest in living people?"
"You have a point," I reflected as I thought back on the short (albeit jam-packed) time period for which I'd known the man, "but I fail to recall any occasion on which I've felt he's expressed interest in me."
"He purchased your father's books-"
"Not confirmed." I tilted my head.
"He offered you his place on the couch that one time-"
"Elementary manners, really."
"He bought you coffee." John stated exasperatedly.
"When?" I inquired after a moment's pause. I had never once been greeted by the detective with a cup of warm drink in hand.
"This morning. He slipped out early and walked to a cafe down the street. He was quite secretive about it, actually."
"So secretive that I didn't even know he bought me a coffee?" I confirmed, my eyebrows coming together in confusion.
"I only know because I saw the full cup in our bin. Well, the cup was empty, the bin bag was slopped with it - I got on his case about not dumping it down the sink first." He winced at the recollection before physically waving the memory away, "It wouldn't have been for anybody else."
"Why would he throw it away instead of giving it to me?" I pondered quietly, letting my gaze travel over to the dark haired enigma's roaming form down the way.
"I don't know, but it must mean something." John shrugged.
I frowned in introspection. Was something simply wrong with the drink? Did Sherlock buy the coffee only to realize the gesture would come across as more friendly than he'd prefer? Was he afraid of unintentionally leading someone on in any capacity? Did he himself have feelings deep (deep, deep) down that he didn't want to foster or encourage? Was he just behaving as a civil, quote-on-quote normal person?
"What are we doing?" John laughed, rubbing his hands over his eyes.
"We're stalling, John!" I said dramatically, smacking my hands on the seat in front of me and shaking any unnecessarily amorous (or equally unromantic) musings from my mind, "But let's go, this is our burst of energy. Go!" I exclaimed as I gently pushed him towards the door.
We tumbled onto the riverside where Sherlock was communicating with Lestrade near the abandoned vehicle. Donovan was standing with crossed arms behind the pair as they scrutinized the seats. A breeze rippled through my clothing while we walked towards the water's edge and I filled John in on the day's newly imposed time restriction.
"Eight hours?" John asked loudly once I'd finished.
"A bit less than that now, but yeah." I grimaced, skipping a rock.
"Unbelievable." John grumbled repeatedly with varying inflections as he put his hands in his pockets and officially wandered over to the car to participate in the inspection.
I didn't much feel as though I had a place in joining the officers and detectives, so I stayed on my quiet stretch of the industrial riverbank. I strolled along the rocks, skipping the ones that were too idyllically flat and round to ignore. I stumbled upon a large block of craggy concrete, taking a seat and absorbing the dull environment we had found ourselves in. I closed my eyes in mild dread as my phone vibrated, still not possessing much fondness for the device. I pressed the home button with my eyes still closed, slowly opening one to survey the screen.
Henry is available for dinner tomorrow. Six thirty?
-Mrs. Hudson
I blinked in surprise at the text, drawing a blank as to what to type back, rereading it for the fourth time when my phone pinged again:
Henry is my nephew by the way. I told him six thirty is fine!
I couldn't help the noise of protest that involuntarily escaped my lips, my thumbs hovering over the phone's keyboard as I again failed to formulate any sort of response. A date? That I hadn't explicitly agreed to? Now? A blind date? I in no way expected Mrs. Hudson to follow through with setting us up, especially within a day of the offhanded suggestion's utterance. I felt I was in no state to be seeking companionship - nothing about me or my environment felt stable or the least bit welcoming to a person of romantic interest, a complete stranger nonetheless. I toyed with the idea of coming up with an excuse as I pulled my hair into a haphazard up-do to combat the wind, sighing as I came to the conclusion that I couldn't lie to Mrs. Hudson. One date didn't mean the end of the world, did it?
I turned a rock over in my fingers before frustratedly hurling it into the water, conflicting emotions consuming me with more fervor the longer I sat. What of the apparently "curious" detective? There was nothing between us, barely a whisper of hope for anything between us, but I couldn't shake the notion of him from my conscience. Unfortunately, I felt that I could live a lifetime of "what ifs'' when it came to my upstairs neighbor. Why couldn't I simply drop it? There was no need for anything more than friendship and no foundation for any sort of affection. He was rude, ignorant in many ways, and brash, but equally captivating, charming in his own right, and unmatchably brilliant. Ultimately, I decided, if the man couldn't follow through with giving me a coffee, then I would be a fool to anticipate or waste my time pining for anything more.
Does the restaurant have a dress code?
I eventually responded, feeling an intense pang of finality after pressing send. I registered that I was rather shaky upon standing, brushing my hands on my beige knit jumper to rid them of nonexistent dirt. I dilly dallied on the return walk, certain that no one would have noticed my absence in the excitement of the scene. I turned a corner of the winding embankment, able to see the car once again, but feeling the need to keep my eyes glued to the ground as I walked closer. I nodded at Lestrade and ducked under the crime scene tape, wanting to finally get an up close glimpse of the suspicious vehicle's interior for myself.
"You left." A familiar baritone voice observed from behind me.
My gaze didn't falter from the patch of blood it had been affixed to, "Well spotted."
"Are you ill?"
"No."
"You look ill."
"You can tell from the back of my neck?" I asked incredulously, finally facing him.
"Your shoulders appear tense and you've paled." Sherlock noted as though it were all too obvious, "But I can also now observe that your lips have adopted an uncharacteristically red-hue, as have bits of your cheeks, which suggests anxiety rather than illness. Your pupils have notably dilated-"
"It's just the weather." I said with a discontented expression, meaning to brush past him when I noticed something abnormal in return, "Have you been crying?"
"Yes." He said simply, his eyes appearing irritated.
"I didn't know you could cry." I leaned in closer, prickling with curiosity.
"I've been known to summon the odd tear when called for."
"I'll make note of that." I squinted, "Why?"
"Perhaps you should refrain from wandering too far away. Wouldn't want you to miss another show." He appeared content with himself as he flicked a small business card between his fingers and waved John over.
"Where are we headed now?" John queried before Sherlock held the card by two corners and presented it to us rather proudly.
Janus Car Rentals
"Found this in the glove compartment." He smirked.