AN: ACD owns stuff. Happy 4th of July!


Chapter 4

Holmes had this incredible ability to detach himself from his cases at hand and completely immerse himself in an entirely different field for hours before returning to his detective work. On the other hand, I had no such ability, and spent most of the drive back to my apartment pondering what Holmes could have in mind.

This made packing extremely difficult. How was I supposed to know what to bring if I had no idea what the plan was? In the end, after staring at an empty suitcase for an hour, I picked up the phone and called Holmes, who answered after six rings.

"I know you're busy, and I hate to interrupt, but I need to know what to pack."

"New Orleans is hot and humid. Think about it." He hung up before I could reply.

Punk. Some things never change.


I rang Holmes' doorbell a few hours later, large suitcase in tow, stuffed to the brim. It was four in the morning. The adrenaline rush was the only thing that was keeping me awake and standing; I was nervous and excited about the upcoming trip to New Orleans, seeing how I had never been.

Holmes opened the door, took my suitcase, set it next to the door, and waved me inside. "Watson. Have a seat."

Gingerly, I stepped into Holmes' residence for the first time. The place, surprisingly, was rather neat. In contrast to the condition of Holmes' car, which was covered with three different layers of dust and filled to the brim with piles of scrap paper, the living room was furnished minimally, with a well-worn brown leather couch, a stately cherry wood desk, and a few antique bookshelves. The hardwood floor complemented the wooden beams that made up the ceiling. There were three picture frames on the mantle above the fireplace.

To the left of the living room was the kitchen, where the granite countertops, stainless steel appliances looked brand new, polished, and unused. Not surprising, considering Holmes could not cook to save his life.

Holmes was currently sitting on the couch, with two manila envelopes in his hand, lost deep in thought. I perched myself on the other end of the couch, trying to wait as patiently as my curiosity would allow.

"Our flight leaves LAX in six hours. I need you to leave your identification- passport, drivers' license- all of that here. In fact, just leave your wallet here. We won't need it."

Was he mad? "What, you want to sneak onto the plane? Where were you when 9/11 happened?"

He handed me the envelope wordlessly. I opened it, emptying its contents- a passport, drivers' license, two credit cards, all in the name of a Laura Young, and all, surprisingly, with my picture. "Are these real?"

He nodded, as he showed me the other envelope. I thumbed through it; this envelope contained a passport, drivers' license, and two more credit cards, all in the name of a Jake Young. All of the identification, however, pictured a man with black hair and gray eyes. How would Holmes ever manage to pass as this man?

"Yes. We'll be traveling under these names."

"Where did you get these?"

"Jake Young was the cover I used when Lestrade had me go undercover for the Ramirez case. As for your documents, Lestrade just dropped them off half an hour ago. I assure you, these are all real."

"But why do we need to go through this business of using fake names?"

Jake's reply was strained. "Watson, do you think that Sebastian doesn't know who I am or why I'm looking for him? The only way that I'll be able to get close enough is by going undercover- which means you'll have to take on a fake identity too. Look, if you've changed your mind, you can leave now."

I shook my head. "No way. I'm going with you. Just tell me who I need to pretend to be."

Holmes wore an expression of neutrality, but I suspected there was a smirk lurking somewhere behind the dispassionate facade. "My wife."

The color drained from my face. Did I hear him right? Was I supposed to pretend to be his wife for two weeks? I bit hard on my lip, trying to consider whether or not it was too late to back out of my promise to go with him. I considered Holmes to be a very good friend, someone I would do almost anything for, but for some reason, I was rather uneasy about playing his wife. I didn't think he had forgotten about my outburst in San Francisco, where I had as much as admitted to him that I cared for him.

"Watson?" Holmes broke the awkward silence. "Believe me, I'd rather us be brother and sister, but we don't look the part. Plus, pretending to be a couple will be more useful undercover." The smirk that was still tugging at the corners of his stoic expression suggested he did this on purpose, but I was unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. So, what else do you need me to do?"

Holmes then grimaced, and held up a box to me. "This."

I broke out laughing. It was a box of semi-permanent hair dye- in black.


Holmes told me a little bit more about the plan as I worked the dye through his hair (even combing a bit of the dye through this eyebrows). We would spend days trying to find Sebastian by tracing his family members, and nights combing through bars where Sebastian worked. Given his cover as Jake Young, up and rising drug lord and crime boss, and given that we really didn't look anything like brother and sister, Holmes tried to convince me (I was still doubtful and argued otherwise, but in the end, just let the matter drop) that it would make much more sense for me to pose as his wife, as it would alleviate any suspicions that Sebastian might have. Holmes also went on to estimate that it wouldn't take us more than two weeks to find him. As to what would happen after we found him, I didn't want to ask, and Holmes didn't venture any answers.

As Holmes rinsed his hair, dressed, and got ready, I amused myself by examining his living room more closely. The bookshelves were filled to the brim with books on chess, fencing, boxing, and- you guessed it- scrapbooks of possibly every single crime, murder, grotesque experience in Los Angeles from recent years. Moriarty- my lovely ex husband- was so prolific he had an entire scrapbook dedicated to himself.

Three piles of papers were stacked on the cherry wood desk. As I took a closer glance, one of them seemed to deal with the recent Ricardo Ramirez case; the other two were labeled "Jason" in Holmes' even hand.

The three picture frames on the mantle were the most telling, personal items in the entire house. While his devotion to solving crime was more than evident by his scrapbook collection, the three pictures were the first glimpse I had ever had into Holmes' personal life.

The first was a picture of Holmes and another man, whom I presumed was his brother. They shared the same piercing eyes, hawk-like nose, and unruffled light brown hair. The major difference was the large friendly grin on the other man's face, a direct contrast to Holmes' own smile in the picture, which never seemed to reach his eyes.

The second picture was one of four men, Holmes, Brian, Gary, and Holmes' brother, taken at some formal function. All four of the men were dressed in tuxes. Brian and Holmes' brother had equally large smiles stretching across their faces, and while Gary wasn't smiling, his eyes seemed to reflect the same amusement. Holmes, however, looked rather out of the place, the smile on his lips looking rather contrived, his eyes rather haunted.

The third picture was that of an older couple. Given at how closely the man looked like Holmes, I suspected this picture was that of Holmes' parents. The woman, on the other hand, reminded me more of Holmes' brother, complete with cheerful laugh and twinkling eyes.

"Which one do you think I look more like?"

I continued to stare at the pictures, even as I felt Holmes come up behind me. "Your father."

"That's what Jason had said too. But they passed away when I was young, and I never really knew them."

I turned around. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged, changing the subject. "So, do you think I look like Jake Young now?" He was dressed in a dark pinstripe suit, an off-white shirt and red tie, complete with gold cufflinks. His hair, a formerly light brown color, was now a striking black, slicked neatly back, matching his tan complexion better. He had also donned a pair of gold rimmed glasses, which didn't hide his piercing eyes, formerly a light brown, now a brooding gray.

"Contacts," he said, answering my unvoiced question.

I found my voice. "Yeah, just add one of those spiffy gold plated walking sticks and you'll pass as a Mafioso."

He grinned. "That might be overdoing it, though I'm sure I could make it work. But I can pass as a crime boss, right?"

"Or a pimp," I snickered.

Holmes gave me a nasty look. "Come on. We'll need to leave now if we want to catch our flight."

I grinned, feeling triumphant. This was going to be an interesting trip.


AN: Hope everyone had a Happy 4th of July! Thanks for the love (Kittenchatter- well, ok, I promise they'll really be on their way in the next chapter; snowwolf- I know, this chapter might have been even sadder; softbalchick181- thanks! I'm so flattered!) from all my reviewers…