Violin playing echoed through the flat the next morning and John walked out to see Sherlock standing at the window, and sighed. Mrs. Hudson picked up the breakfast plates and showed John the two that hadn't been touched as John put on his coat. Sherlock lowed the violin then and wrote down some notes on a music sheet.
"Lovely tune, Sherlock. Haven't heard that one before." Mrs. Hudson commented.
"You composing?" John asked, looking worried.
"Helps me to think and assists Sam in sleeping." Sherlock replied, gesturing with his bow over at the young woman covered in a blanket and sitting up on the couch; asleep.
John lowered his voice; knowing that Sam hadn't been sleeping well just by looking at her.
"What are you thinking about?" He asked, as Sherlock began playing again.
Sherlock abruptly tossed his violin down and pointed at the computer where John's blog laid open.
"The counter on your blog is still stuck at 1895."
"Yeah. It's faulty. Can't seem to fix it." John said, confused by the sudden interest.
"Faulty, or you've been hacked and it's a message." Sherlock said, lifting up Irene's phone, only for a tired voice to call out.
"It's not that."
Sherlock looked at Sam who yawned and begrudgingly got up; keeping the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
"What?"
"The passcode isn't 1895." She repeated, digging through her luggage. "You'll figure it out, but you're looking at it the wrong way right now. Mrs. Hudson?"
"Yes, deary?"
"Sorry about skipping breakfast. Could you reheat some of it for me for when I get out of the shower?"
"Of course, dear." She replied. "Though I'm not your housekeeper."
"Yes, ma'am." Sam hummed as Sherlock interjected.
"But you can't tell me now."
Sam turned to him, furrowing her brows in thought. "Hm… I could. It'd probably get her killed if she wasn't already, but it kind of takes the fun out of figuring out the puzzle, doesn't it? You only get four chances before the phone fries it's data and I've just saved you a chance. If I just told you though, knowing that you'll figure it out anyway, then I doubt you'll be pleased."
Sherlock scowled at her as she entered the bathroom and closed the door behind her; John looking a bit shocked as well.
"Has she, um… She seems different." John said as Sherlock begrudgingly put the phone back and scoped up his violin to play again. "Did you say something to her when you went out last night?"
"Simply informed her to stop doubting herself and her decisions. She's willing to give us hints now." Sherlock replied bluntly and John nodded.
"Right… Right. Well, I'm going out for a bit."
Sherlock said nothing, so John went over to where Mrs. Hudson was reheating Sam's breakfast in the kitchen.
"Listen." He says quietly. "Has he ever had any kind of… girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?"
"I don't know." The landlady replied.
"How can we not know?"
"He's Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head? I'm surprised he's taken such a liking in Sam. They're like peas in a pod."
John smiled a bit, glancing at the bathroom door and then back at Sherlock. "Yeah. She's good for him, I think. Off I go then."
He left and as the door closed, the violin stopped, as did the shower in the bathroom. Mrs. Hudson didn't notice, seeing as she had finished in the kitchen and returned to her own flat. The bathroom door opened, however, and Sam walked back out in the blanket; not having looked as though she'd showered at all just yet. Sherlock glanced back at her as she spoke.
"You need to hurry if you're going to follow him."
The car with John in it pulled up to an abandoned power station and he got out and followed the woman who'd tricked him, with complaints.
"Couldn't we just go to a café? Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere."
The woman ignored his comment and gestured ahead of her. "Through there."
John glanced at her, but then hurried on, missing the woman speaking to someone on the phone.
"He's on his way. You were right. He thinks it's Mycroft."
John walked into the large room, not seeing anyone yet, but knowing they were there and calling out ahead of him.
"He's writing music. Doesn't eat. Barely talks. Only to correct the television and occasionally to Sam." He said, walking further as someone began to step out of the shadows. "I'd say he was heartbroken but, uh, well, he's Sherlock. He does all that anyw—" He trailed off as Irene walked into view with a smile.
"Hello, Doctor Watson."
They stood there, just watching each other for a few moments, before John finally got some words out.
"Tell him you're alive."
Irene shook her head. "He'd come after me."
"I'll come after you if you don't."
"Mm, I believe you."
John's anger towards the woman grew. "You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you."
"DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep." Irene hummed.
"And I bet you know the record-keeper."
"I know what he likes." Irene replied. "And I needed to disappear."
"Then how come I can see you and I don't even want to?"
"Look, I made a mistake." Irene said. "I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help." She paused. "I honestly should have sent it to dear Sammy. She would understand better than he would."
"No." John said, not willing to help her.
"It's for his own safety."
"So's this. Tell him you're alive." John demanded.
"I can't."
"Fine. I'll tell him and I still won't help you." John snapped, turning to walk away, but Irene stopped him.
"What do I say?"
John turned back to her furiously. "What do you normally say?! You've texted him a lot! Sam too."
"Just the usual stuff."
"There is no 'usual' in this case."
Irene lifted her phone and began reading off the messages. "'Good morning.' I like your funny hat.' 'I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner.'"
John looked stunned at that as she continued.
"'You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch'. Let's have dinner.' 'I'm not hungry… Let's have dinner.'"
"You… flirted with Sherlock Holmes?" John said in disbelief.
"At him. He never replies." Irene corrected. "Though I must admit, Sam was more than consistent." Irene looked back at her phone. "'No, I don't want dinner.' 'You're annoying.' 'Don't you have dignitaries to screw?' 'How do I fix my phone?' 'I'm going to start sending you stupid cat videos, if you don't stop texting me.' 'You shouldn't use 'dinner' as a metaphor for sex. What if I'm actually hungry?'" Irene chuckled at that one. "She has quite the responses."
"No, hold on. Sherlock always replies. To everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word. And Sam hardly ever sends back more than an 'OK' or a 'Sure'. She won't reply at all if she has a choice."
"Does that make me special?" Irene questioned.
"…I don't know." John said, still looking lost. "Maybe."
"Are you jealous?" Irene mused then and John scowled.
"We're not a couple."
"Then was Sam jealous?"
John scoffed. "She doesn't look at Sherlock like that. She respects him."
"Yes, but there's always a point where a crush and idolization turns to infatuation." Irene hummed, before lifting her phone. "There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'"
She sent the message and John turned away from her.
"Who… Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes and Sam, but for the record—If anyone out there still cares—I'm not actually gay."
"Well, I am." Irene smiled. "Look at us both."
John chuckled shortly, before a female sigh broke their laughter and John turned towards the sound of Sherlock hurrying away. Irene held out her hand to stop John from following though.
"I don't think so. Do you?"
Sherlock returned to Baker Street in a slight daze, though not as confused as one would think. Sam had told him she wasn't dead. Not directly, but enough for him to figure it out and, if anything, he was rather pleased. Or, he was, until he reached the door to 221B to find it had been forced open. Mrs. Hudson… Sam. He pushed open the door, feeling as though everything was moving in slow motion as he looked around and spotted cleaning supplies pushed off to the side of the hallway and Mrs. Hudson's door firmly closed. Is she home? She usually doesn't stop cleaning midway. Scuffmarks were on the wall beside the stairs as well as scratch marks and a dab of blood. He could imagine someone dragging another up the stairs as they struggled. He lightly touched where the victim's nail had clawed at the wall and he went up the stairs feeling anger boil in him as he realized what had happened.
He kept his feelings well contained as he walked into his flat to find Sam slumped over in a chair, breathing heavily with her wrists tied behind her back. Behind her, stood Neilson and two other CIA agents from Irene's home with all three armed; Neilson with his gun pressed to the back of Sam's neck and one of the other men with a bleeding nose. Sherlock remained as calm and collected as he could, while Neilson spoke.
"I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes."
"Then why don't you ask for it?" Sherlock hummed, moving closer to Sam and tipping her head up.
She had a cut across her eyebrow that was freely bleeding over her right eye as well as a dark bruise on her jaw and a split lip.
"I've been asking this one. She says she doesn't know anything, but we all know that's not true."
"She only just got here yesterday." Sherlock informed him, looking up at Neilson.
"You know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock kept spotting things though. The cut along Sam's cheek probably from Neilson's ring. The tear in her sweater sleeve, and the calm, determined look in her eyes. Sam wasn't afraid of them, and that nearly made him smile. He caught sight of Neilson's weak points, a plan already forming in his head as he stood tall.
"I believe I do. First, get rid of your boys."
"Why?" Neilson questioned, suspicious.
"I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room."
Neilson begrudgingly turned to his companions. "You two. Go to the car."
"Then get in the car and drive away." Sherlock ordered. "Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn't work."
The two left and Sherlock continued.
"Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me."
"So you can point a gun at me?" Neilson accused and Sherlock stepped back and spread his arms.
"I'm unarmed."
"Mind if I check?"
"Oh, I insist." Sherlock said simply and Neilson headed over, lifting Sherlock's coat before moving around him.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the move and slipped a hand in his coat before turning around and spraying a stunned Neilson in the eyes with cleaning spray. He then head-butted the man, knocking him unconscious before flipping the can of spray and setting it down.
"Moron."
He went over to Sam then, brushing a hand over her cheek and making her wince as she spoke quietly.
"You're late."
"Apologies." He hummed, glaring back at Neilson's prone form briefly before going to untie Sam. "Where's Mrs. Hudson? She never stops in the middle of her cleaning."
"I…" Sam licked her split lip with a cringe as Sherlock untied her and she was able to bring her hands forward. "I convinced her to head to the shops." She glanced at him with a small smile. "We were out of milk."
He furrowed his brows. "No. There's some in the fridge. John bought a gallon a few days ago."
"Whoops." Sam chuckled, before cringing and grabbing her shoulder.
Sherlock tugged at the collar of her shirt, looking over her shoulder to see dark bruising forming there as well, before something came to him.
"You knew this was going to happen. You got rid of the milk."
"Couldn't let Mrs. Hudson get caught up in this mess." Sam sighed. "I can pay for the milk."
Sherlock chuckled slightly. "Forget about the milk, Sam…" He paused, looking her over and seeing exhaustion but a small smile of proudness on her face and he leaned in and kissed her forehead; surprising her. "Thank you."
She blinked in shock, before Sherlock stood and offered her his hand.
"I'll be needing that chair. Do you need assistance in walking?"
She accepted the hand up and stood with a cringe, but managed to make it over to the couch without much issue as Sherlock hefted up Neilson and dropped him roughly into the chair she'd been occupying.
"We'll have John look you over once he returns. I'll grab you an ice pack for your knuckles and a cloth for your face as well."
Sam sighed, leaning back against the couch stiffly. "Right…"
John got out of Irene's black car and headed up to the door only to see a note stuck to the outside.
Crime in progress.
Please disturb.
Fearing the worst, John hurried up the stairs and burst into 221B.
"What's going on?"
He stiffened at the sight of the angry Neilson who was tied up and gaged with a bleeding nose in the middle of the main room.
"Geeze, what the hell is happening?"
"Sam has been attacked by an American while simultaneously preventing the same from having happened to Mrs. Hudson."
John turned and spotted Sam sitting on the couch with an ice pack on her knuckles and a number of cuts and bruises.
"Oh my God, Sam. Are you alright?" John asked, looking at her in concern before glaring at Neilson. "Jesus, what have they done to you? And what's this about Mrs. Hudson?"
"Later." Sam grumbled.
Sherlock though, stood; gun aimed at Neilson and a phone up to his ear. "Downstairs. Take her downstairs and look after her. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson won't mind you borrowing her flat. The spare key is under the potted plant outside her door."
"Alright. Sure." John said, helping Sam up and out the door, pausing to speak with Sherlock, but Sam called after him.
"I'll explain downstairs, John."
"Yes. Yes, alright." John said, trailing after her as Sherlock spoke into his phone.
"Lestrade, we've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance." Sherlock hummed as he set the gun down. "Oh, no, no, no, no. We're fine. Sam's a little rough around the edges, but John's taking care of that. No, it's the uh… It's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured."
Neilson paled as Sherlock continued.
"Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull… suspected punctured lung." Sherlock mused, glancing at the quickly panicking CIA agent. "He fell out of a window."
I sat and cringed as John dabbed at the cut on my eyebrow with an alcohol swab.
"So? What happened?" John hummed as he stopped and reached around for some plaster for my injury.
"The American's want Irene's phone. They believe Sherlock has it, so they broke in to get it." I said simply as John place butterfly closures across the cut.
"And Mrs. Hudson?"
"Sent her to get milk. Dumped yours. Sorry."
John opened his mouth, brows furrowed in confusion, before closing it and shaking his head. "What?"
I sighed. "John, I knew this was going to happen. I sent Mrs. Hudson out so she wouldn't get caught up in this."
John looked shocked. "But… But why didn't you leave?"
"And have them ransack the place?" I scoffed. "Please."
"Sam."
"I'm kidding." I sighed, grimacing as John shifted my arm around to check my injured shoulder. "Sherlock's an idiot and left Irene's phone. If they searched, they would have gotten it. I would have figured out a way to get out unharmed, but I was hard pressed on time."
There was a loud noise then and we both glanced out the window as a pained groan came from outside.
"That's on Mrs. Hudson's bins." I hummed. "She won't be pleased about that."
John sighed and went about getting some tea ready and it wasn't long before the noises of Neilson falling repeatedly out of the second story window faded and sirens approached. Mrs. Hudson was the first to walk in though, getting a quick breakdown of what happened from John before she coddled over me. It was nice, after the rather lonely Christmas break I'd had, but it wasn't long before Sherlock entered the room.
"We need to look after Sam, Sherlock. She can use my bed."
"Well, she's fine." Sherlock pressed as he got a mince pie from the fridge.
"No, she's not." John pressed. "And Mrs. Hudson, you should take some time away from Baker Street. You can go and stay with your sister. Doctor's orders."
"Don't be absurd." Sherlock scoffed.
"Sherlock, Sam was attacked over some bloody stupid camera phone." John complained, before frowning. "Where is it, anyway?"
"With someone safe." Sherlock glanced down at me and I rolled my eyes.
"You're lucky I knew where it was. Second-best dressing gown. You're a moron. I hope you know that." I complained, reaching down my shirt and pulling it out. "You're lucky Mrs. Hudson didn't accidentally put it in the wash."
He managed a small smile at that, taking it from me and putting it in his coat before giving John a look. "Shame on you, John Watson."
"Shame on me?!" John exclaimed, still in a bit of shock himself over the whole mess as Sherlock wrapped an arm around Mrs. Hudson.
"Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall."
She chuckled lightly and even John managed a smile before the three of us headed upstairs to give Mrs. Hudson back the privacy of her flat. Sherlock went to go hide the phone though, but was quick to return as John made more tea for us.
"Where is it now?" He asked Sherlock.
"Where no one will look." Sherlock answered simply, picking up his violin and standing at the window.
"Whatever's on that phone is more than just pictures." John said.
"Yes, it is." He hummed, tuning his violin.
John changed the subject. "So, she's alive then. How are we feeling about that?"
Sherlock glanced briefly at me, but I looked back tiredly. He said nothing about the two of us already knowing, and then Big Ben chimed.
"Happy New Year, John, Sam."
John ignored the greeting. "Do you think you'll be seeing her again?"
Sherlock turned and flipped his bow before beginning to play. Getting the hint, John took a seat and settled in for some reading before retiring to bed. Sherlock continued to play though, beginning to lull me to sleep with the soft tunes. That did nothing, however, to quell the coming nightmares.
Some time had passed since New Year's, and Sam had settled into Baker Street even more so. She was allowed to rest in Sherlock's bed when the man himself couldn't sleep and he would occasionally assign her cases now as well, to test her intellect rather than her foreknowledge. John was impressed with the dynamic the two had set up and silently wondered what would happen when Sam's year in England was up. It was a hard thing to forget, that her time with them was only temporary, but he knew she had a life outside of Baker Street. It was only a matter of time. They made the best of it though and John enjoyed her company while shopping, as well as on cases. She managed to balance out Sherlock's rudeness rather well, and kept it to a minimum when she could. Even Mrs. Hudson had warmed up to the young woman, who had begun attempting to work out English cooking.
After a while though, something changed. Sherlock and John both caught it around the same time. Sam had begun to get antsy about something, and they wouldn't find out what it was until sometime later, when the group entered the flat to find Sherlock staring at his bed in stunned silence.
"Sherlock?" John questioned, but Sam stayed at the entrance to the hall with a small frown on her face.
"We have a client."
"What? In your bedroom?" John scoffed, only to understand when he went over to see Irene sleeping in Sherlock's bed. "Oh."
Sherlock left it to John to wake her up and the woman went to shower first and get comfortable. Sherlock though, turned to Sam as she put away some of the groceries.
"Anything I should know about?" Sherlock asked her and she flinched, turning to glance back at him as she placed a can on the shelf in the cupboard above her.
"Um, well…" She lowered her arms and turned around to lean up against the counter with a frown. "Hm… I would say…" Sam looked up and Sherlock frowned at the serious expression on her face; one he hadn't seen in a long while. "Be careful what you give her and how much."
Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion. "Talking in riddles now?"
Sam shrugged, lightening up and acting more like her relaxed self; which Sherlock had been seeing more of in the past few months thanks to his words on Christmas Day. "I'm being general. There's more than one 'what' that you're giving her, but being more specific could ruin a lot of things and make people like your brother and the CIA very unhappy. Well, more than they have been, lately."
Sherlock hummed in understanding, and went into the living room to await Irene. John helped Sam though, and they soon made up some tea before also taking their seats; Sam sitting in Sherlock's chair so Irene couldn't. The woman soon came out, dressed in some of Sam's spare clothes, surprisingly, and smirked at her upon seeing the seating arrangements.
"Ooh, look at you." Irene hummed. "You've certainly changed since I last saw you. The boys have done you some good."
Sam didn't answer, simply sipping at her tea with her eyes closed as Irene went to sit in John's chair instead. Sherlock was the first to question her though, keeping a close watch on the interaction between Irene and Sam. Their somewhat friendly relationship bothered him even now.
"So, who's after you?"
"People who want to kill me." Irene replied easily.
"Who's that?"
"Killers."
Sam sighed softly, earning a smirk from Irene.
"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific." John pressed, but Sam gave Sherlock a look and he changed the subject slightly.
"So, you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them."
"It worked for a while." She said with a small shrug.
"Except you let John know that you were alive and therefore Sam and I."
"I knew you'd keep my secret."
"You couldn't."
"But you did, didn't you?" Irene hummed. "Where's my camera phone?"
"It's not here. We're not stupid." John said confidently.
"Then what have you done with it?" Irene asked. "If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you."
"If they've been watching me, they'll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on Strand a few months ago." Sherlock mused.
"I need it." Irene insisted.
"Well, we can't just go and get it, can we?" John said, before his eyes lit up with excitement as he turned to Sherlock. "Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart's; then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the café, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back."
Sherlock smiled. "Very good, John. Excellent plan with intelligent precautions."
"Thank you." John smiled proudly.
"Except, we are stupid." Sam said then, making John blink.
"What?"
Sam pointed at Sherlock, who pulled the phone out of his pocket. "He did open a safety deposit box, because they'd be expecting him to protect it better. They didn't expect him to simply keep it in the place that was just searched for it. Nobody double-checks things anymore."
Irene stood as Sherlock flipped the phone in his hand.
"So, what do you keep on here? In general, I mean."
"Pictures, information, anything I might find useful."
"What? For blackmail?" John asked.
"For protection." She corrected. "I make my way in the world. I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."
"Find a better job?" Sam offered, earning a small smile of amusement from Sherlock.
"So, how do you acquire this information?" He asked.
"I told you. I misbehave."
"But you've acquired something that's more danger than protection. Do you know what it is?"
"Yes, but I don't understand it."
"I assumed. Show me."
Irene held out her hand for the phone, but Sherlock held it up out of her reach.
"The passcode."
Irene didn't budge and Sherlock soon handed her the phone. She punched in the passcode, but the phone beeped.
"It's not working."
Sherlock took it from her. "No, because it's a duplicate that I had made, into which you've just entered the numbers 1058." He said, pulling out her real phone from between the cushions of his chair, which made Sam sigh. "I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway."
"Won't work." Sam chimed in, making Irene raise a brow and Sherlock to scowl; punching in the numbers anyway.
The phone beeped again, declaring his error as Irene explained.
"I told you that my camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand."
"Oh, you're rather good." Sherlock complimented.
"I'd say you weren't so bad yourself, except…" She turned to Sam. "Seems Sam knows more here than she's letting on."
Sam shrugged and Irene turned back to Sherlock and held out her hand for her phone. The two locked eyes for a bit, as Sherlock handed it over and John cleared his throat to interrupt the tense staring contest.
"Hamish." He said, drawing their attention to him. "John Hamish Watson. Just… if you're looking for baby names."
Sherlock frowned, lost, but Irene brought things back on track.
"There was a man. An MOD official. I knew what he liked." She hummed, stepping away so she could put in the code for her phone, bringing up a photo. "One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it." She passed it to Sherlock as he sat down. "He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen. Can you read it?"
"Yes."
"Code, obviously." Irene went on as he looked it over. "I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it. Though he was mostly upside-down, as I recall. Couldn't figure it out. What can you do, Mr. Holmes?" Irene leaned over his shoulder as Sam stiffened in her chair and bit her tongue to keep quiet. "Go on. Impress a girl."
Irene smirked over at Sam, who narrowed her eyes at the woman as she leaned in and kissed Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock glanced her way and then his eyes locked on Sam, who had turned away at some point, before he spoke.
"There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment. I've only been on the case for eight seconds." He spat out quickly, brows furrowed as he caught sight of Sam wincing; a hint of her more reserved self showing.
He glanced at the other two in the room and they looked lost, so he sighed.
"Oh, come on. It's not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look." He showed the screen to John, explaining his thinking process rapidly to save time. "There's no letter 'I' because it can be mistaken for a '1'. No letters past 'K'. The width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place. Families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter 'K' or rows past fifty-five, which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number—007—that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent. The only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport."
He stood up and looked over at Irene, who was staring at him hungrily.
"Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."
"I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice." She said instead and Sherlock's gaze again returned to Sam for a brief moment.
Irene hadn't missed the action.
"John, please can you check those flight schedules? See if I'm right?"
John took a second, before responding. "Uh-huh. I'm on it. Yeah."
Sherlock then spoke to Irene. "I've never begged for mercy in my life."
"Twice." Irene pressed as John cut in.
"Uh, yeah. You're right. Uh, flight double oh seven."
Sherlock whipped around at that. "What did you say?"
"You're right?" John repeated, confused.
"No, no, no. After that. What did you say after that?"
"Double oh seven. Flight double oh seven."
Sherlock began to mumble to himself, confused as to why that phrase bothered him. "Double oh seven, double oh seven, double oh seven, double oh seven. Something… Something connected to double oh seven. What?"
Irene watched him pace for a second, before her eyes shifted to Sam, who just stared blankly. Almost disappointed in her, which made her frown. Sherlock glanced at the front door then and stopped, remembering overhearing his brother's conversation over the phone. His eyes widened, realizing he'd made a mistake and hearing Sam's earlier words echo in his thoughts.
"Be careful what you give her and how much."
He turned to Sam as understanding dawned on him, but was surprised to see her look sad. Overbearingly so. He opened his mouth to ask, but closed it; knowing to do so in the company of Irene wouldn't get anything from Sam. He felt a sense of disappointment from her as well, as she stood up then and moved around him.
"Where are you going?" He asked.
"Out." She muttered in response, pulling on a hoodie and a coat he'd gotten her for Christmas under John's pressuring. "I need a smoke."
He couldn't really stop her and his mind was soon taken over by his brother's voice and the plan he may have just ruined.
I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and lit it with a grumble of frustration. This was one of the moments I hadn't wanted to happen. There was nothing I could do to stop it though. If Moriarty didn't stop the plane from being used, then Sherlock wouldn't have learned anything from trusting Irene and she would have most likely been killed. She was important to him and as much as his brother would be furious with Sherlock, I knew they would all work through it. So I had to convince myself it was better this way.
Sherlock had made me better. I wasn't doubting myself as much lately, but I knew that when Moriarty came back, I might not be able to keep it up. I still couldn't say his name out loud and the nightmares—though fewer in number now—still happened often. And then there was the Fall coming up and I'd be leaving England too. My year abroad was coming to an end soon and once that happened, I was unsure about what I was going to do. Sherlock would be gone for two years, after all. If he still saw me useful after that, it'd be a miracle. But for the upcoming two years, I would need to figure out something to do and right now, I couldn't even figure out what I was going to do about the Fall.
I sighed heavily, blowing out the smoke from my lungs and stomping out the end of my cigarette; preparing to light another one if it hadn't been for the figure that walked up to me in a suit.
"Sam Foxe."
I looked up and frowned. "What? What does Mycroft want with me?"
The man said nothing, just opening the car door of a vehicle that had pulled up. I didn't move though, suspicion also having grown on me.
"How do I know you're working for Mycroft and not someone else? John already made that mistake."
My phone buzzed then and I cautiously took it out, not taking my eyes off the large man until the last second.
Get in the car, Sam.
-MH
I huffed, removing the cigarette from my mouth and returning it to the box in my pocket before giving in and heading for the car. Once in, I didn't bother questioning where I was going or why Mycroft wanted me. I knew they wouldn't answer. The trip took a while though, but once we were at a building I didn't recognize, I was rather confused. It wasn't the typical abandoned warehouses. It was rather fancy and I was led through a number of hallways, before being brought to a room that was familiar.
Mycroft sat at the head of a table, looking worn out and exhausted. His coat was no longer on and his eyes were sharp in a way I hadn't seen them before, and I began to grow concerned. This was not the man I had confronted before. This was Mycroft Holmes when he was angry. And I was the target of that anger.
"What's going on?" I asked hesitantly as Mycroft laced his fingers under his chin.
"Oh, I think you know."
I fidgeted as he continued.
"Miss Adler had to get that information from somewhere. As did Moriarty." He said, standing and walking around the table towards me as I shrank into myself. "You seem to be the prime candidate, seeing as you know more than you should and I've yet to hear whatever excuse you've given my brother."
"I didn't tell Irene anything." I protested. "She showed Sherlock the info she'd gotten and he wanted to impress her. That's hardly my fault."
"Yes, well, if you knew about it, you could have stopped her. Stopped them both actually. And yet, I still get a text from your friend informing me that the jig is up, as you say."
"He's not my friend." I argued, wincing at the harshness of my tone when Mycroft glared down at me. "And there was nothing I could have done to stop them."
Mycroft smiled sickly sweet. "Oh, I hardly believe that. You made sure Mrs. Hudson was out of danger, after all. Surely shutting Miss Adler up would have been very little trouble for you."
"No. You don't understand." I pressed, but he suddenly shouted.
"You don't understand!"
I stumbled back, tripping over my own two feet as he towered over me threateningly, voice calming down and making things that much worse.
"You see, Sam, thanks to you and my brother, there is a plane that won't fly. Said plane would have been used to save hundreds of lives, but instead, it will never fly because you decided that you could play God in this situation. My brother is in the line of fire now and I'm stuck doing what I can to keep him out of it and right now, you're looking like the next best thing. Because you, Sam, have information that no one knows how you acquired. Information that could save and end lives depending on how it is used. Extracting that information wouldn't be a problem. Moriarty knew that."
I could feel my breath catching in my throat as Mycroft stared me down and my back hit the door.
"So you see, my dilemma is, should I risk trying to protect my brother through the usual means, or should I do it by throwing you to the wolves? I'm sure keeping you tied down with the British government would prove beneficial and the American's wouldn't notice if some student who was enjoying Britain on a school trip suddenly went missing. It would take ages just for your own brothers to realize what happened, with their work getting in the way. Because I'm done playing nice with you, Sam." He snapped sharply; my panicked breaths ringing in my own ears. "I don't care how infatuated my brother is with you, it's about time you learn what happens when you cross me."