Chapter 4

We walked up to the building complex, me sulking visibly as Sherlock dragged me along. He had made them incredibly restricting, and my wrist was very soon begging to become irritated by the metal. A scowl etched itself onto my face.

"He's not going to answer," I said as Sherlock pushed the button next to Van Coon's name. "I told you, he's dead. No use for it." He pushed the button again just to spite me.

"So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back." John seemed to be siding with Sherlock, apparently trusting the man who handcuffed random women to himself rather then the unwilling victims of his pain in-the assery.

"If you really want to get inside, why don't you ask the new tenant below to buzz us in and use their balcony to descend to his." I wiggled my eyebrows as Sherlock looked at me scathingly. He seemed to sense my foreknowledge regarding his next words, and was cross that I said them before he could have his chance at seeming brilliant. Which he was. I was simply showing him that others could be too. Granted, I was kinda cheating. Not that it mattered, since he didn't know that.

It was a bit difficult, trying to explain away the handcuffs to the rather confused and suspicious lady, but he came up with a simple alias and some garbage saying that we were doing an experiment regarding the psychology of being in close proximity and it's effect on mental function. Her eyes were skeptical, but she allowed us on the balcony, which presented another problem. The proper way to jump down with the two of us linked.

"Just unlock them," I protested. "They've been extremely cumbersome and have only served to curtail our abilities in solving this case. Our argument right now is delaying the time we could be using to continue our investigation."

"If I do unlock you, it is likely that you will attempt an escape." He looked over the side of the railing, judging how best to move forward. "That is something that I can not allow at this point."

"In a fight, I think it's painfully obvious who would possess the upper hand," I said quietly. "So even if I tried to run away, my attempt would be all to quickly thwarted." I sighed. "Look, take off these things and let me go down first. If I try to escape, John will be able to stop me and you can put them back on. Besides, if he is dead I get to stay with you regardless. So either way, I'm sticking around. Deal?" My voice was laced with impatience.

Sherlock looked at me severely. "Fine," he said, retrieving the key from inside his coat. "For your sake I hope you are not lying." He twisted the key in the lock and I regained ownership of my hand. At least temporarily.

"Wouldn't dream of it." I rubbed the skin gingerly. "And next time, don't make them so tight. It just encourages me." My hands hoisted me up and over the rail, stumbling slightly as I hit the ground. "All right, your turn."

He followed swiftly, landing much more gracefully then I. He held up the cuffs expectantly.

"Careful," I warned. "Keep this up and I'll start to think you actually like having me around. Then I might just have to step up my game." I stretched out my left hand. It was easier to walk together if they were on opposite hands. It was possible we could even hide they were there at all.

Click. "I would call it intrigue, as opposed to enjoyment of your presence." He made them even tighter then before, and I winced in discomfort. "I still have yet to discover anything truly concrete regarding your nature."

I smiled nastily. "Somehow I feel a distinct and foreign feeling at those words. What is it called?" My head tipped to the side coyly. "Oh, I remember. Strangely I feel as if you were almost flattering me.

Sherlock looked at me darkly. "How silly of you," he said. "The moment I have extracted every piece of knowledge concerning your person will be the same moment I make every effort to ensure we never meet again." He opened the wide French glass door. "Don't mistake my thirst for information as a compliment." He led me into the room, and thrown by his words, a lump formed in my throat.

He really was an freak. My eyes were threatening to water, but I forced the would-be tears back down. I would not display any change in my demeanour. I would not allow him to see how his words had affected me. I was not going to let him have that satisfaction. I was not! If anything, he only furthered my resolve to frustrate him.

"So this chap was left handed," I commented as he surveyed the flat. We walked through the sitting room and into the kitchen. He opened up the fridge and glanced inside, noting the excessive amounts of wine it contained. "I mean, you do see that, don't you?" He ignored me once again. Perhaps it wasn't just me though, as he ignored John as he attempted to contact us using the buzzer. I think part of him was in deduction mode.

We approached a pair of wooden doors that led into the bedroom. He tried opening them but failed, and resorted to breaking them open with his shoulder. The first thing he saw inside was Van Coon, dead by gunshot wound to the head. I cracked a grin, not even bothering to say that I had won. He would be irritated enough to know that I was right.

"We better go let John in," I said. "It wouldn't be right if he missed out on this happy occasion." Part of me felt bad for saying that at a crime scene, but Sherlock wouldn't care and I felt much too elated from proving him wrong.

Not too long after the police had arrived. Sherlock put on a pair of rubber gloves.

"So do you think he lost a lot of money? I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys." John had his arms crossed and looked at the body.

Sherlock moved away from it, a small look of exasperation on his face. "I don't know that it was suicide." He crouched down, which meant I also was forced to crouch down, and examined his suitcase.

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside." He looked to the window. "You'd have to climb down the balcony."

Sherlock noted his luggage. "Been away three days, judging by the laundry." He stood back up, and I also got to my feet. "Look at the case, there was something tightly packed inside it."

John kept his eyes firmly planted away from the bag. "Take your word for it."

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some blokes dirty underwear." John's voice held a trace of disgust at the very idea.

"It seems you were right, Helen," Sherlock said, pulling out a crumpled once of paper out of the body's mouth. "He was being threatened. They used some sort of code, obviously. I still haven't worked that out yet." He placed the evidence into a plastic bag. A man walked into the room. "Ah, sergeant." He offered his hand, which meant I offered my left. "We haven't met."

"Yeah, I know who you are." The man placed his hand in his pockets. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." He eyed the cuffs with a measure of disbelief.

Sherlock handed him the bag. "I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?"

"He's busy," he explained. Due to my current attitude toward Sherlock, I was kinda rooting for this guy. He seemed keen to dish out some finely crafted standoffishness towards Sherlock. I could only wish him the greatest possible success. "I'm in charge. And it's not sergeant, it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." Burn. "Why are you handcuffed to that woman?" His voice was disapproving, like no matter what he said Dimmock would not believe him and substitute his own reason, most likely a worse scenario then the truth.

"Foreplay," I said quickly, cutting off whatever ridiculous explanation Sherlock was like to provide. Indeed, Sherlock seemed to stiffen in response to my words, obviously fuming over their intention and effect. It took nearly all of my willpower not to smile or laugh as the DI glared at him with so much contempt I thought the handcuffs might spontaneously combust from sheer mind power.

I was so content with myself I didn't even realize what anyone was saying until Sherlock mockingly praised Dimmock saying, "Good, you're finally asking the right questions," and leaving in a huff. "That would have been entirely easier if Lestrade had been there," he observed once we got into another taxi. "John, call Sebastian's office and find out where he is. I need to inform him off what's happened."

"Alright, sounds like a good idea." John complied, pulling out his cell phone and dialing the number.

While he talked, I began whispering to Sherlock. "Sorry I used an excuse that you have so little knowledge in to explain away the handcuffs," I said, trying to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible. "You don't think it will cause problems for you with the people at your work, do you?" Of course it would cause problems. The implication that he brought me there for that type of purpose would significantly diminish his already rocky position in relation to his co-workers.

"Even if I was what you might call 'inexperienced' in those types of activities, why would you assume as such?" His voice deepened even further when he whispered, giving of the distinct impression that he held significant power akin to James Earl Jones portraying Darth Vader.

He was fishing, trying to get me to admit to being acquainted and associated with his brother Mycroft. His brother did often tease him on the exact same subject matter, and Sherlock had incorrectly abduced that Mycroft had related to me some details concerning that particular area of Sherlock's, inexperience, as it were. But in no way would I give him that satisfaction. Plus I didn't know Mycroft anyway, so if Sherlock approached him about it then I would be caught, tried, and condemned in the mental court of Sherlock Holmes' for perjury.

"Sherlock, I merely assumed that while your talent for deducing certain facts and conclusions not privy to the general public is on a pedestal nigh impregnable, your lack of a, shall we say, glittering personality, has led me to conclude that your attractiveness level presented to the opposite sex is sorely lacking." I lifted my left hand up, forcing him to do the same. "Case in point, Mr. Holmes. Not many women find being trapped with an ass to be considered sexy."

Several times he had let it known his displeasure that my presence had caused, but now I really laid on thick my own feelings of contempt and disgust. No sense in sugar coating it. If I had been awake, I probably would've stayed silent and demure sound someone like him. But not here. I could do anything, so I threw social precaution to the wind and said what I bloody well felt like saying. It's amazing what one could accomplish with this type of mind set.

"Sherlock, he's eating at a restaurant with some associates in Leicester Square. Should we wait until he's done or go now?"John had finished with his call and was completely oblivious to the mini face-off the two of us had just had.

"No, we'll go now." He looked past me and at John instead. "Taxi, take us please."

I looked over at John as well and smiled, sighing every so slightly. "What, have I missed something again?" I raised an eyebrow at him. He rubbed his forehead in irritation. "You two have got to stop doing that."

We arrived at the restaurant and interrupted his meeting, which pleased me somewhere in the malicious corner of my mind. I decided I liked him a good deal less then Sherlock. Sebastian led us to the bathroom, and I stopped short of entering it.

"What's the problem now?" He said, jerking a bit as I halted unexpectedly.

"My problem is that is the men's restroom," I said slowly.

"I fail to see why that hinders your ability to go inside," he countered.

"It hinders my ability because I am in fact a female Sherlock." He was staring to piss me off again. "Females do not go into the men's restroom, or were you never taught that in school?"

He was about to say something, then stopped. He took a breath to steady himself. "If you could ignore social convention for the next five minutes, that would put me at great ease. I am asking you nicely."

"Well, it's not exactly my goal to make you feel at ease now is it sonny boy?"

His brow wrinkled in frustration. "There is nothing for it. Please remember this was of your own doing." He began to drag me into the bathroom! My feet slid across the floor as I mutilated him a thousand times over with my eyes, cursing his superior strength. "Screw you Sherlock Holmes!"

The other two were already inside and looked at us apprehensively. The two of us looked like an absurd pair, one bitterly forcing the other along while the other struggled viciously against the one. The whole thing, I regret to say, was quite childish.

"You two okay?" John asked tentatively.

Once inside Sherlock released me and brushed off his coat. "Just fine," he muttered. Forcing a smile, he raised his eyebrows and said, "What is there to know about Van Coon?" This time it was my turn to actively ignore him, looking the other way with my nose in the air while they conversed. The whole situation was entirely and unnecessarily demeaning. At least the bathroom was clean.

They finished chatting rather quickly. I was inextricably tired of the whole situation, and felt myself experience a strangely odd pang of homesickness. "Are we heading back then?" I queried them. Sherlock ignored me and went outside instead.

"Taxi!" He called. One arrived immediately.

We climbed in silently, none of us wanting to break the temporary calm that had befallen us. The vehicle bustled down the streets, taking us back to the 221B. Several times I considered speaking, but thought this was likely a rare occurrence and didn't want to waste it. Simple silence can be quite rewarding.

Back at the flat I resumed my previous position in the red chair, pulling my feet to my chest. My head leaned against the back of the chair. I was utterly and irreparably drained. Trying to play smart ass with Sherlock Holmes took no small amount of energy. And he was still attached to me in a rather disgruntled manner.

"It would be most convenient for me if you would relocate wherever I happen to traverse," he informed me.

"Yeah, and it would be most convenient for me if you would shut the hell up," I shot right back at him. "I swear I can almost see an entire tree growing out of your ass from when you decided to shove a stick up there." My eyes became heavy. "I'm staying here tonight anyway, so take these damn things off and leave me the heck alone." I felt my mind drifting away.

"If you are going to sleep, I suggest you do so in an actual bed." He pulled me to my feet. "I never use mine, so you can rest there." In my hazy state I followed him, ready to pass out the moment my head hit the pillow. " He led me to his bedroom and unlocked himself from me, and I immediately fell onto the bed.

"Why do you have a mattress this amazing if you never use it?" I asked groggily. I pulled the blankets over me, sleep just moments away from claiming me. Somewhere I thought I heard a faint noise that seemed familiar, but ignored it, letting the dreams wash over my spent body.

Sherlock returned to the main room, sitting in his own chair and resting his head on his fingers. John hopped onto his computer, but glanced back at his friend every now and then. Neither spoke for an hour until John finally decided to break the ice, knowing it had to be done sometime.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" He said, swirling his chair around to glance at the immovable consulting detective.

"Not really, no," he responded.

"It's okay if you do." John was trying to reassure his friend.

"No, this is a discussion I would rather not have with you, or anyone for that matter." Sherlock began to run n his fingers through his hair. "It's just..."

"It's just what, Sherlock?" John turned to face his friend more fully.

He got up and began pacing. "She's just so, so, so, infuriating." His voice was full of annoyance. "Never before have I had to combat someone who knew more about me then I about them. I'm at my wits end attempting to break her." He stopped and picked towards his friend. "Why was she in our flat? I must be missing something."

"It could be that she was telling the truth and only ended up here by accident," John pointed out. "She seemed to be telling the truth, or at least what she thought was the truth."

"It can't be that simple," Sherlock said contradictorily. "The probability that her words had even the most atomic trace of truth to them is abysmal." He scowled. "I hate liars."

"Well Sherlock, you've got her name and that DNA sample from earlier," John pointed out. "You could always try to find out who she is and where she's from. Didn't she mention her boyfriend had recently died in a car accident? You could look through recent news articles and maybe try to find her that way too."

"I've got it!" Sherlock said suddenly. "I'll take down the tissue from earlier and have it analyzed at the lab and compare it against various databases. Then I'll use her name and see if I can find any correlation between her and recent car accidents. This is genius!" He began assembling his coat and gloves, stuffing the plastic bag in his pocket.

"Sherlock, that's what I just said." John looked at his friend in disbelief. "Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

"I'll be at St. Barts. Don't wait up for me." And with that he swept out of the flat, a new goal and sense of determination needling at the back of his head. "I will find out who you are," Sherlock muttered to himself. "Helen Richardson."

Happy New Year! Sorry I'm a little tipsy at the moment, but please forgive that. I may or may not be potentially incoherent for the remainder of this note. Oh gawd I love you guys! You've no idea how nervous I was putting up this fic, mostly because I know the premise is WAY WAY WAY overdone, and OCs are generally looked upon with disdain. Plus making every word I type sound scholarly and sensible (most of the time) is an absolute pain in the ass!

Oh, and if you've ever been to Leicester Square, it is one of my favorite places to be in London. I love the busyness of it. Makes me feel at peace for some strange reason.

And I hope you don't mind Helen checking out every time there's extensive dialogue from the show, because I don't want it to be a complete rehash of what's in the episode. My only solution was to have her tune them out and stuff. And does anyone else feel like their conversations are reminiscent of Darcy and Elizabeth? Because I sure as hell see that. But them again, I'm an alien amalgamation of a plethora of concepts, theories, musings, trivia, pop culture references, obscure cultural references, music, and insanity.

If someone could please pass me a towel, I desperately need to mop up this utter mess of an author's note.

If you liked this and want to see more, drop me a review. If you do drop me a review and/or save this story to your alerts and/or favorites, that will make me even happier and more likely to write the next chapter. If you feel like I'm taking to long to update this story, then feel free to friend me on facebook and bug me about it there. The link is in my profile.