A/N: It just grew unplanned, like most do. -csf


.

'Tell me about yourself, John.'

The woman slowly pacing never breaks eye contact as she slowly circles me. I'm her target, a retired army doctor strapped tightly to a chair in some lost warehouse, with no one out there looking for me.

'There's really not much to tell. I'm the common guy.'

She smiles, half-amused, but the smile is sterile and won't spread to her elegant features. Yes, this is a woman to die for; or so does she think, according to her poise, the expensive clothes, the danger laced in her words.

Yeah, I fell for it. I'm the idiot.

She asked for my help, looked lost on the street. A good Samaritan is a dangerous role to play these days.

A true hero is best defeated by his own deeds.

She snaps my attention back to her bright red lips by grabbing hold of my chin and forcing it her way. Our eyes lock on each other's before her words ghost whisper across my face.

'There must be something you can tell me. You are Sherlock's partner in his exploits.'

'You're right; I'm waiting, any day now, for the religious authorities to recognise me as a saint', I quip. 'Hey, you're good at this, ever thought of doing counselling?' I raise the sarcasm level a notch. 'Might want to invest in a proper sofa, this chair is not that comfy...'

She hisses, letting go of my face. My chin throbs. She's got a good grip, I should keep that in mind.

'Tell me about Sherlock Holmes.'

The woman's voice is languid and unhurried, benefiting the anachronic look with the long evening dress, the dark lipstick and permanently surprised eyebrows migrating towards the immaculate hairstyle. She paces again, jittery like a caged animal, before elegantly sitting over a crate, mindful of her dress. She glances at me mockingly coy, then shifts in her fake long chaise, exposing what an era once called "legs that go on forever".

In the noir era this overly feminine woman would be a stereotype of a wicked woman with few morals about to crash into a bad ending. That's a role she seems to have taken up by choice, as she balances a dainty but deadly handgun on her knee, steadily aimed towards the man tied up to the uncomfortably hard chair in front of her.

Right, keep her distracted from that deadly gun she's carrying. Talk about the detective – that should be here by now!

In reality he might not even know I'm gone. Why would he? Still— he's Sherlock Holmes.

'Sherlock is... brilliant. Really brilliant. I don't really understand him most days, though. I guess that's part of his talents. Unintelligible as a genius most days, he is. And, of course, you never really know if he's being incredibly awkward or a huge jerk. He probably doesn't know it himself. He... is my best friend. The one I can always count on. He always comes to help.' I clear my throat and explain: 'He'll come to rescue me today too. And I should let you know he doesn't take kindly to folks who kidnap his friend.'

She leans forward, the light bouncing off her platinum hair in shimmery waves.

'I'm counting on his rescue. I want to meet Sherlock Holmes.'

I just about catch myself before I roll my eyes; her gun is aiming steadily at my beating heart.

'He won't fall in love, you know? He's not that type.'

'What type is that?'

'Human.'

'He's not human', she surmises, mockingly.

'Not like the rest of us, I mean. He doesn't quite feel things like us, you know. Love, anguish, guilt – I don't think he's quite proficient on those. Maybe it's his looks. And definitely the slim suits. He gets all this attention and it barely registers. Married to his work, he says. His work is often rotting corpses and gory crime scenes. That would make him more of a vampire than a detective, huh?'

'He cares about you.'

'Does he, now?' my voice goes steely cold. 'When he's not rushing off a crime scene and leaving me there stranded in the pouring rain while he's in a nice warm cab on his way to Buckingham palace? When he pulls me out of bed at three in the morning to go stroll about the morgue, looking for one corpse with an identifiable scar on his big toe?'

'You always follow him?'

I look away.

'Yeah. I care about him. That much is true. He has a tendency to get into trouble. Of course I'll always follow him.'

She smirks, amused.

'John, you know Sherlock Holmes better than anyone in this world.'

'No.' I shake my head. There's someone else. Big brother Mycroft. He could dissect Sherlock's personality. But I'm the one who can tell you what to expect from the unexpected.

She leans back, impressed. 'Someone knows Sherlock better than you.' Then her lips twitch to a simile of a smile. 'Don't feed me clichés. Don't tell me Sherlock knows himself better than anyone.'

I grump naturally. 'Sherlock is very oblivious about himself, trust me on that. For a man who spends his life observing and studying others, he's really dumb as to his own motivations and feelings. Sometimes he's really oblivious on everyone else's too. Emotions are not his strong suit.'

'What is Sherlock's strong suit?'

'Logic. Cold hard facts. Mathematics and analytical reasoning. That sort of lifeless, fun-less things.'

'And that's where you fit in, John. You help him navigate the real world. Make him behave, translate the social cues, and even clean the shared flat.'

I shrug as much as I can. 'Someone needs to clean the place. It's not only me. There's Mrs Hudson, the landlady, who lives below us. She often does a spot of dusting.'

The platinum blonde is amused. 'There's a woman in Sherlock's life. She's the housekeeper.'

'Most assuredly she isn't, she keeps telling us she isn't.'

'How... familial this all sounds, John.'

'Excuse me?'

'Those Sherlock surrounds himself with, they care for and protect him with the loyalty of family.'

I huff, amused, eyeing the forgotten gun balancing on a knee. 'You should know.'

'John?'

'Although I must say your boss Mycroft Holmes has already testified to the Firm's policy of kidnap and interrogation.'

The woman smiles, in control.

'Very good, John. You are cleverer than you are given credit for.'

'It's the side by side comparison with Sherlock Holmes that undoes me, really.'

'Yet he's not showing up... Should I take you home now?'

'Only if you promise never to see me again. You know, like my usual dates...'

We both sigh at the same time. Possibly she's unlucky at love just as I. Or maybe I missed something.

Mycroft's new assistant gets up, elegant and all languid gestures and laden glances.

'Sherlock will be here in no time to set you free, John.'

'No, wait! Why am I still tied up to a chair?'

'So you won't follow me', she deadpans just like her half-brothers.

'No wait!'

Helpless, I watch her leave by a door at the end of the empty warehouse. Just at the same time, Sherlock Holmes, the one and only, enters through another door and rushes over to free me, disregarding his own safety for my rescue.

'Mate, you've got to quit the family business', I state, sighing in relief as the tight ropes fall from my wrists.

'Just drop it, John. My family likes to keep an eye on me.'

'Keep an eye on you? The Holmes could teach a thing or two to the Italian mafia! Besides I thought I had been screened enough!'

'You have. Mycroft is training his new recruits, by the looks of it. Welcome to the Family. They now they keep an eye on you too, John.' He presents me with a goofy smile, his green eyes still a touch vulnerable, uncertain if this time I've been stretched too far. He's fear of losing me is out in the open now.

'It's a lifetime membership, huh?' I gruff.

'If you've got no better offer', he smirks.

I just shake my head. No better offer, no. Nowhere else I would want to be.

.