This one is a longer one that covers the two Sherlock Holmes movies with Robert Downey Jr. I rewatched them and felt an oc would be interesting here. So, I added an OC from our time and this is what came out of it. Hope you enjoy!


This… did not seem right. My head was throbbing and my vision spinning, but the sight of horse-drawn carriages and Victorian-style dresses as someone spoke to me in my dazed state was unmistakable. A set of fingers snapped in front of my face a few times, trying to draw my attention as a steady hand grabbed my wrist, taking my pulse.

"W-Where…" I muttered, confused as the mustached man lifted his gaze to mine.

"London, sir, off the East bank of the Thames. Someone saw you in the water and called for help."

"T-Thames? London?" I questioned, brows furrowing as I attempted to sit up despite the man pushing me back. "No. No, that can't be right. I-I was… I was flying over Afghanistan. The mission was…"

I brought a hand to my head, cringing and pinching my eyes shut as I remembered the alarms blaring in my plane, the flames coating my engine as it pitched downward. I'd crashed into the desert, I remember now. I'd been shot over enemy territory the last week of my service before I was meant to return home to my younger sister who begged me to try again with our parents. Yet… somehow…

"This man needs immediate medical attention!" The mustached man at my side demanded as my vision started to narrow.

"D-Date… What's the date?" I asked, voice slurring and making him pat my face lightly, demanding I stay awake before everything went dark.


When I woke up again, it was to a white room with a woman mopping my brow. When she saw I was awake, she greeted me with a smile and frantic worry as I tried to push myself up and demand where I was. When she told me the date, however, is when my troubles began.

"April 10, 1890?" I breathed, feeling a little lightheaded and shaking it off as I threw off my bed covered and got to my feet.

I staggered a bit, vision swimming momentarily until it righted itself and I was able to shove the woman clinging to my arm off to reach the window. Down below were the same horse-drawn carriages I'd thought I'd seen before and a quick look at the town bustling around told me this wasn't just a movie set. The sky was clouded with smog and everyone within eyeshot was wearing the right era clothing. I felt sick for a minute as the woman tugged at the long white dress-like outfit I was wearing, drawing me lightly back to the bed.

A doctor was summoned, declaring that the gash on my temple was healing well and he prescribed some medication to help with the headache that persisted after my concussion. I refused the medication, despite his insistence, and seemed to draw more attention than I should have. He'd questioned about what family he should contact and my name for their records. The name I freely gave and the rest I denied because if I had somehow gone back in time—my mind refused to believe this, but the pain was very much real, and the thought of being trapped in a coma-like dream was another possibility—then my family did not exist here. So, I claimed amnesia of everything but my name, and he left to go find the authorities in hopes of getting some answers.

This meant he'd left me alone, which was exactly what I wanted. Being questioned by police was something I wanted to avoid, and I dug through the tables nearby until I found my uniform jumpsuit, pulling on the undershirt and tugging the suit up before tying it around my waist. Wearing the full thing would make me stick out like a sore thumb but running around in only a shirt and boxers would be far worse. I couldn't stay here though. Sooner or later, I'd be let out anyway, but being a woman in the 1890s was not something I wanted to experience, especially with my short-trimmed hair. And dresses are suffocating. I need to get out and grab something better.

So, I slipped out the window and easily fled the building and grounds, ducking through alleyways and hoping I'd be able to survive here without money or anything but the skills I'd acquired while living in the military in the 21st century.


Sherlock Holmes, having undoubtedly frustrated his partner John Watson by deducing his newest woman's deceased ex-fiancé, decided that letting off some steam would be the best way to end his evening. Watson would come scuttling back eventually and by placing his usual bet on himself, he hoped the extra money might sway the doctor to his side. It wasn't that he didn't want the man to marry, he simply didn't want the man to leave. He had his uses on cases and such, and kept him right. John leaving would mean he'd be back on his own again, and the thought drove him mad.

So, he stripped himself of his coat and shirt when he found the right victim, placed his bet, and stepped into the ring. The block of a man he was fighting was undoubtedly above his weight class, but Sherlock didn't mind a bit of flinging about. He ducked and dodged the man's hits easily enough, occasionally getting a smack in himself with the flat of his hand. Then, the man would swing again, and he'd slap the appendage away, whacking the man up the arm and hitting him in the crook of his neck. Another swing and a slap to the man's face.

He'd done this a million times before. The fights were good warm-ups and while he'd end up sporting at least one bruise by the end of the night, it kept him in shape and was an easy way to make money, if needed. No one typically bet on the smaller guy, meaning his profits were well worth a bit of bruising. He lifted his fists again, eyeing the man who was undoubtedly frustrated and furious with his style of fighting. Sure enough, Sherlock took a solid hit to the ribs and stumbled into the wall for his cockiness.

Grabbing a bottle from one of the bystanders, he took a swig of alcohol and allowed himself to get pushed back into the fight, just to dodge the man and have him sent into the wall. He spun around with his arms open, enticing the crowd and lowering his guard enough for the man to grab him around the waist and slam him into the wall, before Sherlock slapped at his ears to get released and dodged another heavy swing. With a punch and a slap, he'd angered the man further and was pinned to the wall with him attempting to bite off his ear. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the dirty play, shoving the man's head back and slapping again before getting thrown to the floor.

He heaved himself up with a few claps before deciding he'd had enough after a swift hit to the face when he was distracted by a dangerously familiar white handkerchief embroidered with the red letters I and A. He spotted the woman who left it nearby at a table, dressed in the same crimson red as the letters and he held up his hands to the man still eager to fight.

"That's it, big man, we're done. You won, congratulations," he said, attempting to walk out as the man bellowed at his back.

"Oi, we ain't done yet!"

Said man went to spit at the back of Sherlock's head, but before he could a glass cracked over the top of his skull and he toppled to the ground, sending the bystanders into silence. This made Sherlock pause, turning away from Irene when she waved a finger at the person behind him, and he raised a brow. It was a man, slimmer than he, once he'd removed his outer coat; his head covered by a paperboy's cap that shadowed his face. Sherlock wasn't eager to fight again with Irene hanging around—hoping to catch her before she vanished like so many times before—but when he looked back Irene was placing a wager.

"Double," she said, surprising the betting man and making Sherlock smirk. "On the new fighter."

His smile fell in disbelief, and he turned to the new fighter with renewed vigor. Irene knew his skills and talents, knew that the fight he was doing a moment ago wasn't him at his best. Yet, she was placing money on his opponent. Something was up. So, he rolled his neck and faced the man, bringing up his fists as he'd done with his opponent before.

"You should remove your cap," he offered with a tip of his head. "A handicap like that could be your downfall."

They shrugged, posture relaxed as they tugged their bracers to hang down at their side and undid the top few buttons of their dirt-smeared white shirt. "It's not a handicap if I beat you, is it?"

A few 'oohs' went out from the bystanders watching before his opponent took a step forward and settled into a loose form of a stance. Sherlock did a light deduction of the man, taking in the strange boots he wore, and the tinting of the dirt smeared on his shirt. A working man of some sort. Fallen on hard times but recently having bounced back. Military, given the straight posture he'd walked in with, but knuckles bruised and bloodied already. He'd had his fair share of fights as well. This wouldn't be easy.

"After you," he hummed, tipping his head and his opponent took the offering as a cue and rushed forward.

Sherlock wasn't too surprised by his speed, blocking the hit and the following with a smack of his palms. He could feel it though. The man was testing him, judging his skills for himself, and not quite going all out. The crowd started ramping up again, adding to that buzzing in his ears as his eyes followed the movements of the man to try and judge what he might do next and accurately defend himself. Then, he thought he saw an opening and went for it, smacking a fist away and swinging his palm to try and connect with their ear.

His eyes widened when the hit was blocked and a palm connected with his diaphragm, knocking the breath out of him, and making him stumble back. Then, upon regaining his stance, he had to duck out of the way of a round-house kick to the temple, somehow grabbing the heel kick that followed and twisting the figure around only to see a hint of a smirk. It was too late to let go though, as his opponent curled in towards his leg, grabbed him around the knee, and hooked their leg around his shoulder. He was flipped into the ground, spitting out dirt as he scrambled back up to his feet in shock.

"Now, what was that about a handicap?" His opponent taunted as Sherlock stumbled back into the wall, reaching behind him for the handkerchief.

This mustn't register on an emotional level, he told himself, thinking it over and reenacting the upcoming fight in his head. First, distract target. Then, block his blind jab. Counter with cross to left cheek. Discombobulate. Dazed, he'll attempt wild haymaker. Employ elbow block, and body shot. Block feral left. Weaken right jaw. Now fracture. Break cracked ribs. Traumatize solar plexus. Dislocate jaw entirely. Heel kick to diaphragm. In summary, ears ringing, jaw fractured, three ribs cracked, four broken, diaphragm hemorrhaging, physical recovery, six weeks. Full psychological recovery, six months. He faced his opponent and threw up the handkerchief to block his vision, expecting everything to work out how he'd planned it except when he went to block the blind jab, a hand grabbed his wrist.

His eyes went wide as instead of throwing a punch as he'd expected, the man had grabbed him and stepped even closer. Sherlock scrambled to find a move he could use with the man literally millimeters from him but then the man twisted on the spot, pulling his arm and shifting Sherlock's body weight forward. Sherlock went to correct this, but his leg was behind the other man's. His body hit the ground as his arm was pulled behind his back. Sherlock tried to twist out of the position, but his face was soon pressed to the dirt, a knee in his back and arm held straight up behind him at just the right angle to threaten dislocation as pain trickled down from his wrist where a nerve was being pinched by the man's hold.

The ring went quiet as Sherlock panted, breath blowing dust away from his face as he glanced towards the man holding him with little to no effort—not even out of breath himself.

"Sorry," they apologized, offering him a weak smile as they loosened their hold and got up with hands open in a peace offering. "She wouldn't let me have a drink unless I won."

Sherlock pushed himself up off the ground with a scowl, pushing past the man who rubbed the back of their neck before snatching up their coat and taking the money owed them from the better. Sherlock himself grabbed a bottle from the bar and the handkerchief off the floor, wiping the blood from his nose and tearing the cork out with his teeth before marching upstairs.

"That didn't go very well, did it?" His opponent commented as Irene slid up to his side with a grin, tucking her arm through his.

"I think it went marvelously."


I sighed softly as Irene led the way up the steps of 221B Baker Street, holding the door open for her after I picked the lock and we slipped inside. It was a bit of a shock really, to have discovered that I had not only gone back in time over two centuries but also into a movie my younger sister had been fond of. It made me consider the thought that I was in a coma after my plane crashed but given how long I'd been around London just scraping along, I felt a coma patient would've woken. Between that and the fights, the pain alone should have snapped me out of it. I ran my thumb over the back of my knuckles which were bandaged after dealing with Sherlock and a follow-up fight some men started up with Irene.

"Why are we here?" I hissed to Irene as she neared the room Sherlock would be in.

I never saw the movie, after all, just heard a brief account of it in an email my sister sent while I was waiting for the next mission out in the desert sands. I knew very little about it other than something to do with black magic, science, and a Blackwood character. Getting picked up by Irene Adler was just happenstance. According to her, it's what happened when one was cunning enough to fool just about anyone. I drew attention to myself in the process of being as well-hidden as I could get.

"I told you, it's a surprise," she hummed with a teasing smirk, drawing a finger along my jaw that was sporting a bit of stubble I'd carefully glued on.

It was one of the few things I was good at, disguises. That and what the military taught me. Marksmanship and combat training are really coming in handy given the only way for someone with no money to make money is to steal it or fight for it.

"I just hope you know what you're doing," I muttered, not entirely unbothered by her fondness for me but knowing it was just teasing on her part.

Neither of us swung that way, but it kept her from dealing with unwanted suitors and kept me relatively well-off without the use of illegal boxing rings. I did work for her, and she paid me with food and board, with a bit of extra cash thrown in for myself. It meant I was able to blend in better with proper clothes and actually bathe. Victorian times were absolutely filthy, and I swore my lungs were already blackened by smog.

We stepped into the building and my eyes latched onto the bulldog lying on the ground either asleep or dead. I lightly nudged it with my foot as Irene moved further into the room, but the dog just let out a long groan and snorted as it slept on. Not exactly a guard dog, I see. I shook my head and looked over with a raised brow as Irene got comfortable and pulled out some of the items she'd brought along for the man sleeping on the tiger-skinned rug. She gestured to the walnuts she'd taken out and handed them over for me to crumble their outer shell and drop the edible parts in the partitioned container. Sherlock would wake from the noise soon enough though as she took a few herself and cracked through their shell, speaking to draw the detective from his slumber.

"London's so bleak this time of year. Not that I'm pining for New Jersey. I much prefer to travel in the winter," she mused, stepping around him before kneeling and offering him the nuts. "Here, I brought you these all the way from Syria. I found these exquisite dates in Jordan and your favorite: olives from the Cyclades," she purred, eating one herself. "Thought we might have a little tea party."

Sherlock scrambled onto his feet, freezing at the sight of me lounging near his window as Irene continued and picked up a book.

"And while I was setting the table, I found this: a file with my name on it."

Sherlock reluctantly turned his gaze from me and towards a painting he hastily moved aside to mess with a safe underneath and prove it hadn't been tampered with. Irene ignoring him for now.

"'Theft of Velázquez portrait from the king of Spain,' 'Missing naval documents lead to resignation of Bulgarian prime minister,'" she listed off as he scooped up the nuts and flipped a portrait of her down onto the table. "'Scandalous affair ends engagement of—'"

Sherlock attempted to play off the movement, eating a few walnuts as she eyed him and I let out a brief snort, earning a frown from the man before he threw a walnut my direction.

It bounced harmlessly off my shoulder as Irene finished what she was saying.

"'—Hapsburg prince to Romanov princess.'"

"I was simply studying your methods," Sherlock attempted, "should the authorities ask me to hunt you down."

Irene nodded, unconvinced. "But I don't see my name in any of these articles."

"But your signature was clear," Sherlock challenged as they approached one another, and I too moved closer should he try anything.

I was her hired bodyguard for the moment, anyway, even with the… circumstances she was in. He reached up and lightly tugged the chain around her neck, revealing the shining gem underneath.

"Is that the maharajah's missing diamond? Or just another souvenir?"

She tugged it back down into the crook of her breasts. "Let's not dwell on the past… Shall we?"

He frowned lightly, sparing me another brief look as Irene hummed.

"By the looks of things, you're between jobs."

"And you between husbands. How much did you get for the ring?" He challenged as she scoffed and sat down.

"Ugh, he was boring and jealous, and he snored. Noah here is far better," she purred, tipping her head back and smiling at me as she reached out a hand.

For appearance's sake, I lightly took it and kissed her knuckles, earning a grin from her and a glare from Sherlock.

"Lovely thing, isn't he?" She hummed. "Lets me be Irene Adler again."

There was a whine of a fart let out as Sherlock poured tea and our eyes drifted to the bulldog who was now awake before we brushed it off and the two returned to their conversation.

"I need your help. I need you to find someone."

She reached into her dress and Sherlock's hand snapped out only to get grabbed around the wrist by me as his other hand rose in a threatening fist. I raised a brow, challengingly, as Irene sighed and pulled out a letter.

"Why are you always so suspicious?"

"Shall I answer chronologically or alphabetically?" He pressed, jerking his hand free of my grasp, and rubbing at his wrist with a frown as she passed the envelope over.

"I think you'll find all the information you need inside."

He paused. "Who are you working for? You and your little friend."

She smiled simply, giving him enough of an answer.

"So, I'll have to find out the hard way?"

She didn't respond, pulling out a pouch of money and setting it on a desk nearby.

"Keep your money. I didn't say I'll take the case."

"Well, it's not for you."

He looked at her with a frown as she stood and placed a hand on his shoulder with a smile. I eyed her as well, hesitant.

"Though I would wager you will take the case. Noah? Take care of him, please."

Understanding dawned on both of us as she stepped away.

"Irene—"

"Noah," she said sternly, pausing in front of me and lightly tapping my chest. "You and I both know what is intended to happen, and I'd hoped you wouldn't get caught up in this troublesome mess."

"But Irene—"

Her finger pressed to my lips, silencing me as I frowned. "Your talents are wasted under me," she hummed, looking almost saddened. "Watch out for him for me, then take that money and make an honest being of yourself, understand?"

It was frustrating, but I begrudgingly nodded in agreement. I knew she was tangled up with Moriarty, though I'd been picked up after the fact and hadn't met the man. I would be off his radar a while more and Irene would make sure of that by leaving me with Sherlock.

"Do you remember The Grand?" She asked Sherlock, who'd glanced at the letter with their label on it, drawing his attention off our little discussion. "They gave me our old room."

He picked up his violin and plucked idly at the strings before she picked up her portrait and made for the door. The second the door closed behind her, he threw the instrument aside and scrambled for the window to watch her leave. I raised a brow at his apparent madness before he shoved her photo back down and worked on pasting a false nose to his face. Ignoring me entirely, he rushed out of the room and down the stairs. I sighed, rubbing at my brows, and leaving him to his shenanigans. There'd be no point in me going after her now that she'd decided to do this on her own.

The door opened as I was coaxing the bulldog over and I lifted my gaze to a rather startled man with a mustache. His face rang bells of familiarity in the back of my mind but I couldn't quite place it as he frowned and straightened himself. Military man, my mind idly supplied.

"Who are you? What the devil are you doing in our home?" He demanded as I rose to my feet and gestured to the door.

"You'd have to ask the man who just leaped out the window downstairs. Seems I've been… passed off, as it were."

His frown deepened. "Passed off?"

I lifted the pouch of coins, rattling it and immediately drawing his attention as I settled in a seat and folded my legs; a hint of recognition echoing in my head. "Are you willing to make a bet, Doctor Watson?"

His eyes narrowed. "Bet? What kind of bet?"

I'm glad I remember my sister complaining about how they made him into a bad gambler in this movie. "Irene Adler just walked out of the door after leaving this for Sherlock." I slid the envelope over to him and he slowly picked it up and looked over its contents. "It's a case. I want to wager a bet with you on how soon Sherlock will solve it."

"A missing person's case?" He wondered, going over the information. "On a dwarf?"

"Midget," I corrected idly, placing about a month's wage on the table which quickly drew his gaze back to me. "I'll bet he finds the man within the next hour. If I win, I keep half this money and you get the rest, but you have to help me to convince Sherlock to keep me around. If I lose, you get double the money."

He frowned, eyeing the coins and then looking back at me. "I'm sorry, this seems a bit unfair—"

"Triple," I pressed, making him take a steadying breath.

"I meant for you," he bit out, very much wanting the money. "I can hardly convince Sherlock to behave himself, much less take in someone, and whether you win or lose, you're losing money. Not to mention, you're an absolute stranger to the both of us."

A proper gent. Surprising. "All right," I shrugged. "Have it your way. You get double no matter what if you convince him not to throw me out right away. I keep both of you safe and help your case as I was apparently hired to do, and in return, we owe each other one favor a piece. Deal?"

He hesitated, watching as I added more money to the table before we heard Sherlock storming up the stairs and he swiped the money off the table towards him.

"Deal."

I cracked a smile and leaned back in the seat as Sherlock stepped back in and John pretended to be reading the paper, looking pleased with himself as he gave Sherlock a glance—pretending our little deal hadn't just happened.

"Look at you. Why is the only woman you've ever cared about a world-class criminal? Are you a masochist?"

Sherlock wiped the grime off his face, looking annoyed. "Allow me to explain."

"Allow me," John countered. "She's the only adversity who ever outsmarted you. Twice. Made a proper idiot out of you."

"Not the only one," Sherlock muttered then, turning away from his mirror and frowning over at me as I idly lounged in his chair. "Why are you still here?"

I tipped my head towards him. "Oh, I exist now, do I?"

Sherlock stood, waving a hand at me. "Go on. Get."

"I'm not a dog, you twat."

"Sure acted like one," he scoffed, making me roll my eyes.

"Irene paid me to stay here."

"Did she? Well…" He scooped up the pouch of money and tossed it in my lap along with a few paper wages. "Here's me, paying you to leave."

"Sherlock!" John complained. "What's the harm, man? He can go with you while I finish up the moving plans with Mary."

Sherlock whipped around with a scowl before getting into John's face. John pulled back away from him only for Sherlock to reach out and shake his breast pocket. The chiming of coins made John's neck flush before Sherlock rounded on me.

"You paid him off?"

"It's hardly paying him off. We made a bet."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering about gambling addictions for a moment. "What bet?"

I cracked a smirk, tipping my hat up a bit. "That you would find the man you're looking for within the hour."

Sherlock paused, eyeing me before looking at John. "You bet I would solve it in an hour?"

John shook his head, gesturing back to me. "He did. I know you're impressive, Holmes, but an hour?"

Sherlock headed over, earning a raised brow from me before his hand snapped out towards my cap. I grabbed him by the wrist before he could knock it from my head.

"You really don't want to do that."

"Oh, I think you'll find I do."

His other hand whipped around and I slapped it away, sliding down between his legs—much to his shock—before jerking his arm through from behind, flipping him over himself and leaving him upside-down in his seat.

"I did warn you."

"Yes, well…" He grunted as he managed to right himself. "While your skills are impressive, it doesn't explain why you're refusing to let your face be seen."

"You see too much, Holmes," I replied, tugging at the lip of my hat. "If you see who I am too early, it won't end well for either of us."

He shot me a look. "Have we met before?"

"No. Not other than when we fought before."

"Are you wanted?"

I shrugged. "For petty theft, perhaps. Had to find my place in the world and I can't do that without a spot of cash."

He hummed. "So, you're not someone I have a past with, nor would your face draw the attention of a law-abiding police officer. Yet, something I can deduce about you from your face will force a wedge between us, thus ending your contract with Irene and preventing you from getting something you want," he concluded, a slow smirk sliding across his face. "Adding the fact you said my attempt was too early means it will be revealed in due time. Interesting. Very well. I'll play your little game. Noah, was it?"

"Noah Harris, at your service," I hummed, getting a hum in return before John cleared his throat.

"What is Irene after, anyway?" He asked, attempting to get us back on topic. "What could she possibly need? An alibi? A beard? A human canoe?" He teased, earning a frustratedly annoyed look from Sherlock. "She could sit on your back and paddle you up the Thames."

I snorted in mild amusement as John flipped his paper back up and Sherlock sighed.

"That's of no consequence to you, really. Is it, Watson? We've done our last case together."

Sherlock picked up the envelope to give to him but he cut him short.

"I've already read it."

Sherlock gave me a glance, but I waved him off, knowing its contents as well and he dropped them on the table.

"Missing person," John hummed. "Luke Reordan, four foot ten, red hair, no front teeth. Case solved. You're obviously not her type. She likes ginger dwarves."

"Midget," Sherlock corrected, making John frown and peer out from behind his paper to glance at me.

"Sorry, did you…"

"Nope. Didn't say a word," I hummed. "It's politically correct though. The term midget over dwarf."

"He gets it," Sherlock mused, picking up his violin and plucking at the strings as he wandered. "You're misrepresenting the dimensions of foreshortened peoples."

"I will say 'Little People' is something a tad less offensive though," I tacked on, getting John to drop the paper completely.

"I've said too much. I can tell I've upset you."

"No," Sherlock denied. "I am simply stating that one has—"

"What were you doing?" John finally asked, hoping for an explanation as to what Sherlock had done when he scrambled out the window before.

"Will you allow me to explain?"

"I wish you would."

"He followed her," I hummed, picking up a walnut and chewing on it. "Bit obvious, really. Put on a false nose before rushing out the window. Stole your raincoat—which you never hung up despite it being a bit nippy out—probably picked up a few things on the way to better hide himself and find out who gave her this case."

Sherlock tipped his head, stepping forward as I munched on another walnut. "You're not the average grunt, are you?"

"Whoever said I was average?" I scoffed, tipping my head slightly for a better angle. "An eyepatch? Really?"

"I passed through a circus troupe," he muttered. "You forgot the hat."

"Yes, well, hard to tell if you're wearing a hat if it was only for a moment. Not long enough to give you hat-hair, especially if you pulled it off right away and came running back here."

"I'm sorry," John interrupted. "Did you say an eyepatch? How the devil did you get that?"

I leaned around Sherlock and tapped my temple. "He's got a light impression of a string across both his temples, his forehead, and nose. Eyepatch." I straightened up, wrinkling my nose. "You smell like horses too. Bump into the carriage, did you?"

"Had to stop it somehow," Sherlock hummed, reaching around me to get a walnut himself, chomping on it, and walking back towards John. "Do you know who it was?"

"Me?" I scoffed. "I've been with Irene for upwards of a week maybe. She's determined to keep me well away from him if you hadn't noticed. It's probably why she dumped me here. Hasn't said a word about him."

"Hm. This man intrigues me, Watson," Sherlock chimed. "He's got Adler on edge."

"Which is no mean feat," John agreed.

"She's intimidated. She's scared of him. Enough for her to leave her bodyguard to me."

"Yet she works for him. And why leave him with you if she's fearing for herself?"

"To protect you," I drawled, earning their attention. "What? I thought it was a bit obvious. Is it not?"

"Sorry, protect who?"

"Sherlock," I answered, gesturing to said man who grimaced.

"No. No, it's Holmes."

"I'm sorry?" I questioned.

"You called me Sherlock. Don't do that. It's Holmes."

I blinked slowly before shaking my head. "Not happening. Anyway, this guy has to be messing with what she's most concerned about, yeah? So, she dumped me before she could get too attached and left me here with you two to keep you safe too."

"Right. Well, it's nothing to do with me but I'd advise you to leave this case alone," John told Sherlock, who looked ready to do anything but that.

"Well, I may not have a choice, hm?" Sherlock huffed, sitting back in his chair. "After all, I may be paying the rent on my own soon, thanks to you." He swung the bow of his violin towards John who eyed it with a frown.

"Get that out of my face."

"It's not in your face. It's in my hand."

"Get what's in your hand out of my face," John pressed in annoyance as someone knocked on the door.

"Mr. Holmes?" A voice called out and Sherlock drew the bow away as a policeman stepped in.

"Clarkie!"

The officer removed his helmet, looking a bit panicked. "Sir, Inspector Lestrade asks that you come with me at once."

"What's he done now, lost his way to Scotland Yard?" Sherlock chuckled, getting one out of the rest of us too. "Watson, grab a compass. 'You' means 'us.'"

"No, 'you' means you," John pressed as the officer continued.

"It's Lord Blackwood, sir. He, uh… Well… It appears he's come back from the grave, sir."

Zombies in 1890? I silently questioned as Sherlock dropped the bow and leaned forward with steepled hands. No, doesn't seem right. Sister said there was magic mixed with science here. It's Sherlock Holmes, so logic will preside over everything.

"Most engaging," Sherlock hummed as John rubbed his brow.

"Very clever," he remarked dryly. "I pronounced the man dead myself."

The officer fidgeted uneasily before Sherlock asked for the facts. "Groundskeeper claims he saw him walking through the graveyard just this morning, sir."

Seeing another case brewing, John reached over and pat Sherlock on the leg. "I'll leave this in your capable hands. I have an appointment with Mary."

"It's not my reputation that's at stake here," Sherlock challenged.

"Don't try that," John snapped as he got up.

"The newspapers got wind of it?" Sherlock asked the officer.

"Well, that's what we're trying to avoid, sir."

"Certainly. What's the major concern?"

"Panic. Shear bloody panic, sir."

"Indeed."

"You're not taking this seriously, are you, Holmes?" John complained.

"Yes, as you should," Sherlock pressed, earning a scoff of disbelief as he stood. "It's a matter of professional integrity. No girl wants to marry a doctor who can't tell if a man's dead or not."

John didn't look thrilled to get dragged into this but begrudgingly agreed to go and I stood to go as well, only for Sherlock to hold up a hand.

"Not you."

I raised a brow. "Sorry?"

"This is official police business. They won't just let any nobody onto a crime scene," Sherlock said with a smirk as he grabbed his coat with John offering no apologetic glances given I hadn't helped him out of this mess. "Do give Adler my thanks, but you will not be needed."

He stepped out with the officer and I scoffed, dragging a hand down my face in mild frustration.

"Annoying piece of ass." I let out a hot breath and calmed myself, eyes to the ceiling. "Well, I should have figured I'd end up doing this the hard way. Let's see what we can use."