Maxine
I tugged my scarf closer around my neck as I made my way down Baker Street. It had been about a month since my brother and I moved in with Sherlock Holmes, and though we hadn't had an adventure on the level of The Study in Pink (of which my brother fondly named for the blog post he was working on), I had yet to have a dull day.
I still technically had a job with my publishers back in Japan, so half of my room upstairs had been turned into an art studio. When I wasn't drawing and working on story boards, I was downstairs helping Sherlock look over potential cases. John worked on his blog and did most of our errands since he still had yet to find a job. I was trying to discretely take care of our rent with Mrs. Hudson, but John wasn't allowing me to take care of his portion. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice. I considered it pension for letting me participate in his life as a detective.
At the moment, I had two boxes of takeout from the Chinese place down the street; one for myself and the other for Sherlock. John was out getting the groceries, and we didn't expect him back for a bit. He still didn't like me taking care of food for him either, so I'd only ordered extra on mine so he could have "leftovers" that I would complain about not wanting.
I reached 221B and headed into the main hall. I set the takeout down and kicked off my runners while shrugging off my coat; I didn't like keeping it upstairs where it could get potentially ruined by Sherlock's experiments or other activities. Even as I hung it in the hall, I heard pounding footsteps from upstairs. I glanced up and grimaced. Either Sherlock was busy being very active, or there were two pairs of stomping feet up in our flat.
With a little extra haste, I took off my scarf as well before snatching the takeout and heading upstairs on my tiptoes. My socked feet made hardly any noise, and when I reached the door, I could hear muffled yells and grunts of anger.
When I was certain the noise was far from the door, I opened it and darted inside.
I thought that after a month of living with Sherlock Holmes that nothing would surprise me anymore, yet here I was with stretched eyes and a slack jaw watching the detective deftly dodging the hefty swings of a scimitar-wielding robed figure.
Sherlock's eyes met mine and widened a bit. He still managed to duck under yet another lethal attack as he tried to move around the man and toward me.
"Max, why are you back so early?" he demanded.
The man in robes turned and saw there was another person in the room. His head and lower face were completely shrouded in an assortment of scarves.
"I brought Chinese?" I offered weakly.
"Put it in the kitchen for now," Sherlock ordered. He was now positioned between me and the assailant.
Astonished that I was meant to just go about the flat like nothing was wrong, I decided to go ahead and obey the detective and head for the kitchen at a slight run. The robed man tried to lunge in my direction, but Sherlock swiftly dove in and rammed his shoulder into him to force him back. Safely in the kitchen, I set the takeout on the table and contemplated going upstairs to grab my dagger. I could at least let Sherlock use a weapon.
However, it seemed that the detective didn't need any form of weapon to be an effective fighter. He nimbly continued to dodge swing after swing of the blade. The robed man slashed and slashed, forcing Sherlock to back up and roll out of the way. Now there was open space between myself and the swordsman. The robed figure seemed to notice this and dove toward me.
"MAX!" Sherlock shouted in warning.
I took a small step back and loosed an exhale through my mouth. I'd never faced an actual assailant before, but there had been plenty of spars in which my teacher had wielded a stick against me. Miyako had been the strangest little Japanese woman I'd ever met, but she sure knew how to fight.
I watched the blade sing through the air, but I could tell it was aimed too low for my neck and too high for my abdomen. The man seemed to be holding it at an angle as well; not intending a heavy hit. I understood: he didn't want me dead, he wanted something as leverage against Sherlock. I darted to the side, my socks letting me slide clear to the other end of the kitchen in the same motion. The sword missed and the man's eyes blinked disbelievingly.
Seems like Miyako had known what she was doing when she gave me all those bruises. I'd have to email her a thank you note.
The robed man began to give chase and I swiftly turned and darted around the kitchen table. Luckily, he took the bait and went around in pursuit; it left me clear to get into the living room with Sherlock.
"You're fast," Sherlock said to me, seeming just as surprised as our attacker.
"He's sloppy," I replied.
Sherlock grinned just before the robed man was back in the living room with us. With a furious shout, he slashed the scimitar toward the both of us. In unison, we jumped back, but we misjudged the distance we had to the couch and collapsed onto it. As the man came running for us again, I tucked my feet under me, gripped the back of the sofa, and pushed myself up and over it so I landed on my feet on the other side. Sherlock, meanwhile, lifted a leg and kicked the man hard in the gut just before he could swing the sword down on him.
The man was sent stumbling across the room, leaving the detective to get to his feet. Sherlock took a moment to straighten his jacket before charging in at the attacker again. I was starting to think my dagger might be a good idea after all, but there was really no time to go get it. I began to come around the couch to assist Sherlock as he landed a hefty punch in the man's gut. The attacker recovered faster than anticipated and swung the scimitar up toward Sherlock's face. The detective was forced to dart backward to avoid losing his chin.
"Stand back, Max," Sherlock insisted as I approached.
"He has a sword," I pointed out. "We can outnumber him!"
The robed man swung his blade again and Sherlock had to sidestep toward the kitchen to dodge it. His posture was lose and held no particular form, but it reminded me somewhat of boxing. Meanwhile, I took a stance Miyako had taught me: my feet made an uppercase L shape while being placed about a foot apart and I held one hand close to my waist and the other out and at the ready. Perhaps, if I was careful enough, I could disarm this guy.
However, it seemed the swordsman was through with trying to go after me; he clearly saw Sherlock as the larger threat and one that needed to be dealt with sooner rather than later. He charged at the detective with an angry yowl, but Sherlock managed to grab the wrist of his sword hand. The man gripped the tip of his blade with his free hand and shoved it toward Sherlock in an effort to bury the sharp edge into his throat. The two stumbled backward toward the table.
"Not the takeout!" I cried, but too late. The two crashed onto the table and the two boxes of delicious Chinese crashed to the ground and spilled everywhere.
As the men wrestled on top of the table, I darted in to see if I could salvage any of the food. Some of the wontons managed to stay in the boxes, but my chicken and rice were done for. I scooped up the boxes that still carried some of the food and set it on the counter instead. When I turned, I saw that Sherlock was grimacing with the effort to keep the blade off his neck.
I gave a small yelp, astounded I'd been more concerned about food than the detective's life, but before I could make a move, Sherlock punched the man's right wrist upward to keep the sword from cutting into him. The tip of it dug into the table as Sherlock lifted his left leg and kneed the man in the side several times. The attacker's grip weakened and Sherlock forced himself up again with the man toppling off of him and onto the floor at my feet. The sword tip gouged a deep cut in the table as he fell.
Before our robed foe could get back to his feet, I reared back my leg and kicked him hard in the gut. It ended up hurting my toes like hell considering I didn't have shoes on, but the man still grunted in pain and laid stunned just long enough for Sherlock to come around the table. The detective reached down, grabbed the man by the back of his robes, and flung him back into the living room.
"That's for ruining my lunch," he said with a clipped tone.
I exhaled with amusement and followed Sherlock to the living room. The robed man had managed to get to his feet and held his scimitar at the ready. He took a wild swing which Sherlock ducked expertly. He then looked toward the mirror that was to the side of them and pointed at it.
"Look!" he exclaimed.
The man actually looked. I couldn't believe this scimitar-wielding maniac actually fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book; but he turned toward the mirror and gave Sherlock the only opening he needed. The detective thrust his fist up in a powerful uppercut beneath the man's chin. It sent him falling back into one of the armchairs by the fireplace, and his head lolled as his sword fell from his hand; he was out cold.
Sherlock turned his attention back to the mirror and began straightening his suit and sleeve cuffs.
"Jaria Diamond case?" I breathed when the detective glared at the unconscious man.
"Solved now," Sherlock replied calmly. He hardly even seemed winded.
Meanwhile, I'd barely done anything and I was panting slightly. Time to start working out again, it seemed. I shook my head. "They came to the flat?"
"Well, the address is on the website," Sherlock replied. "How else would clients know to come here?"
"I dunno, they could just phone you," I suggested.
"Best not to mention this to John," Sherlock said. "He's still coming to terms with you being in... complex situations."
"He'll come round," I muttered as I looked over the unconscious man in the chair. "So, he have a name?"
"I'd assume so, haven't the foggiest what it is, though," Sherlock admitted. "Could you go get us more food?"
"What about him?" I gestured to the man.
"I'll take care of it." Sherlock waved me off. "Go on, tell Lee I said hello."
I sighed heavily and nodded before turning to head back downstairs. "Next time, you're buying," I called over my shoulder.
About an hour later, I tossed some empty takeout boxes in the bin and carefully placed a third full one in the fridge. When I'd returned to the flat, the robed man was nowhere to be seen. I had to assume that Sherlock didn't kill the poor bastard; I'd guessed he was waking up in some alley with a throbbing headache.
Sherlock, having finished his meal and still not making any mention of the previous incident, was reading a book in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. I tossed him a fortune cookie as I went to sit across from him and the detective expertly caught it without looking up.
"I have a question," he suddenly said, placing the book upside down on his leg so as not to lose his place. He began to break open the fortune cookie without meeting my gaze. "Why do you let me call you Max?"
I blinked, slightly taken off guard by the randomness of his query. "Uh, what?"
"You let me call you Max," Sherlock repeated and his pale green eyes flicked up and fixated on mine. "And yet with Lestrade and the other officers, even Mrs. Hudson, you introduced yourself as Maxine. John, of course, calls you Maddie, which clearly no one else is allowed to do. But with me, you've asked me to call you neither—I'm granted the pleasure of calling you Max; why is that?"
In complete honesty, it hadn't really occurred to me. I frowned and stared at my own unbroken fortune cookie for a moment.
"I suppose that I figured you were gonna be our flatmate, so might as well be on informal terms," I said with a small shrug.
"An unconscious decision, really?" Sherlock seemed pleasantly surprised. He slipped his fortune from his cookie and read it. Whatever had been on the paper seemed to amuse him and he leaned forward to offer it to me while popping one half of the cookie in his mouth.
"What, you didn't want to guess what it was first?" I asked as I took it from him.
It read: You will learn something new about a friend today.
"Seems sometimes they can be right, if a bit late," Sherlock mused through his mouth full. He swallowed and eyed me. "Do you have any idea why you just decided to be so informal with me? Coming back from two years in Japan, I'd like to assume it's something significant."
"My teacher back in Japan called me Akage," I said. "Right away too. Took me a little off guard. I suppose she kind of kept me from falling completely into the whole honorifics thing."
"'Redhead' in Japanese. Fitting. You certainly have a lot of names you go by..." Sherlock said, smiling a little. "Judging by how you handled yourself with our guest earlier, I'd say you studied Aikido. But you have that dagger you're so fond of and given how you wield it, even when there's no-one to stab, you know how to use it. Aikido is generally a peaceful combat: one designed to keep yourself and your attacker safe."
He really was too good at this deduction business. I leaned back in my seat and cracked open my own cookie. "Miyako was primarily an Aikido instructor, yes," I said. "But she had a theory about... certain combatants that one might come up against."
"A theory?" Sherlock perked a brow.
I slid out my fortune and saw it read: Time may fly, but memories don't.
"Ah, this one is just general," I grunted and leaned forward to pass it to Sherlock.
He took it and looked it over while I stuffed the cookie into my mouth. I wasn't certain if I wanted to talk to Sherlock about my time with Miyako. I was certain he'd understand, but at the same time I wasn't quite willing to give up the one thing Sherlock Holmes had yet to discern about me.
"So." Sherlock didn't seem like he intended to let me slide by without answering his questions. He tossed the fortune aside and into the fireplace while eyeing me. "Your teacher was an Aikido instructor, and yet she taught you how to be dangerous if needed. Did her theory involve the idea that some attackers need to be repelled by the threat of death?"
"I... suppose?" I shrugged and hoped my nonchalant manner would deter the detective. Before he could ask more, I added, "I guess I'm not someone who gets comfortable with many people. Japan's culture was almost familiar to me when it came to their sense of respect and formality—you only called people by their first name if you knew them."
"But I didn't know you," Sherlock pointed out. "Not on a personal level, anyway, socially speaking."
I grinned a little when I remembered him dissecting John and my history the first time we met.
"Like I said, it just kind of happened." I leaned back in my chair.
"I know," Sherlock said. "I just want to figure out why..."
"Does everything have to have an answer?" I queried.
"Yes," the detective replied without hesitation as he picked his book back up.
I snorted softly with amusement.
At that point, the door opened and John walked into the flat. He paused the moment he stepped into the living room and looked around with a pensive expression, as if he could tell something significant happened while he was away.
"You took your time," Sherlock said without raising his eyes off his book.
"Yeah. I didn't get the shopping," John confessed.
Now Sherlock looked up. "What? Why not?" He seemed insulted.
"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN machine," John retorted tightly.
I blinked and turned in my chair to eye my brother. "You... had a row... with a machine...?"
John waved me off irritably. "Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?" The last question was aimed a Sherlock. Technically, the groceries were mainly for the detective, but I still found it annoying that John was fine with getting financial help from Sherlock but not me.
Sherlock was clearly trying not to smile at John's distress. "Take my card," he offered.
John turned and began to head toward the kitchen where Sherlock's wallet lay on the table, but then he paused and turned to glare indignantly at our flatmate. "You could always go yourself, you know. You've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left."
I sat back in my chair and bounced my eyebrows at Sherlock with the luxury of my back being to my brother. Sherlock had to fight off another smile.
"And what happened about that case you were offered—the Jaria Diamond?" John demanded.
"Not interested," Sherlock said coolly.
He took the fortune from his cookie off my chair's armrest and used it as a bookmark. With a snap he closed the book and paused for a brief moment, staring down. I followed his gaze to see the robed man's scimitar was sitting in plain view beneath the detective's chair. Sherlock swiftly pressed his foot on the hilt and slid it further beneath the chair and out of sight.
"I sent them a message," he added with the faintest of smirks.
I recalled his uppercut on the robed man and grinned.
In the kitchen, John rummaged among the scattered items on the table until he found Sherlock's wallet. I got to my feet and headed toward him, intent on casually mentioning the leftover Chinese in the fridge, but at that point my brother spotted the deep gauge in the table and ran a finger over it.
"Ugh, Holmes," he whispered exasperatedly.
In the living room, Sherlock shrugged innocently.
"Do I dare ask if you had anything to do with this too?" John's eyes darted up to mine.
I blinked and looked from the gauge in the table then up to my brother.
"So... there's leftover Chinese in the fridge? I got a stomach ache if you wanted..." I gestured weakly toward the fridge.
John groaned and took his leave from the flat. Sherlock smirked as the door shut behind the doctor and bounced his eyebrows at me like I'd done to him earlier.
About a half hour later, John returned with his arms full of bags. I heard his arrival more than anything since I'd gone up to my room to draw. I still had yet to have Sherlock sit and let me draw him; between my actual work for my publishers and the cases with Sherlock I didn't have the time.
"Don't worry about me. I can manage," I heard my brother's voice trail up the stairs.
Taking that as my cue, I put my pencil down and trotted down the steps to assist.
"Thanks," I said to John as I grabbed some of the bags. "So next time, you could just take some cash from me—"
"No, Maddie, that's quite all right," John interjected as he pulled some milk out of a bag. "It's not necessary."
"Paradox..." I muttered under my breath.
"Sorry?" John shot a glare at me.
"Nothing," I said.
"Maddie, if you have something to say—" John began but then his eyes locked onto Sherlock, who was in the living room with a laptop. "Is that my computer?" he demanded of the detective.
"Of course," Sherlock said as he began to type something.
"What?" John exclaimed.
"Mine was in the bedroom," Sherlock replied, as if that absolved him of any fault.
"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John barked.
Sherlock didn't reply, he merely continued to type away.
"It's password protected!" John shouted.
"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock said, still typing. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours." He shot a small glance at John. "Not exactly Fort Knox."
"Right, thank you." John stormed over to Sherlock and slammed the laptop closed before snatching it away. He took it across the room and placed it by the armchair I was in earlier and plopped down in it, clearly annoyed.
"I'll just finish putting all this away, then," I murmured as I pulled the groceries out of their bags.
Neither of the boys bothered to respond to me. I heard some papers being rustled while I shoved the cold goods away in the fridge.
"Oh," John's voice sounded. There was another flick of paper. "Need to get a job."
I looked over my shoulder but with John's back to me I couldn't see past the armchair to see what he was doing. Given the sounds of paper, however, I was going to guess he found his overdue notices on the bills. I had thought about hiding them and just paying them off, but I knew John would put two and two together eventually and be livid.
"Oh, dull," Sherlock muttered.
"We can't all just solve crime for a living," I told the detective.
He didn't reply to me. He sat on the couch with his hands pressed together; he seemed completely lost in thought. I wondered what was going through his head.
"Maddie, erm, can you get me... uh, a pen?" John abruptly asked, leaning over his armrest to look back at me.
"A pen?" I echoed.
John nodded. His lips were in a tight line and he had that wide-eyed doey look he got when he was trying to act innocent.
"Are you going to ask Sherlock for money while I'm upstairs?" I asked.
John nearly fell out of his chair as his hand slipped off the armrest. "What? No. No, not at all—why-why would I..."
"This is why you're a paradox," I told him flatly. "You refuse help from me, but then you go to Sherlock. It makes no sense—what difference does it make to your pride?"
John's brows lowered and I could tell I'd struck a nerve.
"Are you kidding?" he snapped.
"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock said abruptly.
We both looked at him, confused.
"What?" John asked.
Sherlock got to his feet and went to snatch his coat before heading down the stairs. I exchanged a glance with my brother; our disagreement was going to have to wait. Sherlock Holmes only ever got that look in his eyes when he was about to tackle a new problem.
Shad Sanderson Bank was a massive building that towered on Old Broad Street. Sherlock led us through the revolving glass doors and into a magnificent lobby.
"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank..." John began in a small voice as he stared around the impressive foyer.
Sherlock offered no explanation as he walked purposefully forward and stepped onto an escalator that stretched up to the second floor. John and I followed the detective after exchanging a glance that said: Here we go again.
Most of the building was white—white walls, white floors. The only splashes of color came from the light brown desks and the furniture which ranged from a deep, unsaturated red, to a oaken brown. Most of it was just chairs scattered here and there for people to wait in most likely. There were a few tables and I could spy a coffee machine with some paper cups and sugar packets near a waiting area.
There were small machines next to the glass doors that led further into the building that required cards to gain access; employees only. As we rode up the escalator, I noticed that John and I weren't the only ones examining our surroundings. Sherlock's pale green eyes darted around the area with the sharpness of a knife. They lingered on the security system longer than anything else.
When we reached the second floor, Sherlock strode to the receptionist's desk that sat directly across from the top of the escalator.
"Sherlock Holmes," was all he said to the woman behind it.
We were showed to an office deeper in the building, one that required us to be let in through the glass doors by one of the receptionist's cards. The office was large, suggesting whoever owned it was of rather high stature with the company. I noted the name plate on the door as we entered: Sebastian Wilkes. There were large windows that stretched floor to ceiling behind the dark wooden desk that faced the door with a nice view of London. There were two black cushioned chairs on our side of the desk, obviously for visitors.
A man with neatly-kept dark hair and a fair complexion came strolling in shortly after us. He wore a tailored deep blue suit and a checkered tie that went well with it. A wide smile threw deep laugh lines into view when he spotted his guests.
"Sherlock Holmes," he greeted.
"Sebastian," Sherlock replied, extending a hand.
Sebastian grasped it with both of his own and gave it a firm shake. "Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"
As Sherlock took his hand back, he eyed Sebastian with marginally disguised distaste. I could see his discomfort in the small line that appeared between his brows and how he slightly lifted his head to stare down his nose at Sebastian rather than dead on.
Sebastian, however, didn't appear to notice. He turned his attention to John and me, lifting his brows curiously.
"These are my friends, John Watson and his sister Maxine," Sherlock explained.
I wondered if Sherlock was trying to make up somewhat for his earlier dispute with John about his computer.
"Friends?" Sebastian echoed, clearly picking up the emphasis on the word.
"Colleagues," John corrected.
"Right," Sebastian said and took my brother's hand in his own. "Right..."
I noted how Sebastian tossed Sherlock a brief look that reminded me of being back in the schoolyard as a kid. The other children never quite got along with me, usually because I didn't filter anything I said and didn't get attached to anyone. It was before John taught me the importance of blending in. Some of the kids enjoyed pestering me and poking fun.
The look Sebastian threw at Sherlock was that of a bully—plain and simple. It said: You have a friend? Not likely.
I decided in that moment that I didn't care for Sebastian Wilkes.
He turned and extended his hand to me. I eyed it for a heartbeat, heavily considering ignoring it altogether. However, out of the corner of my eye, I saw John's eyes narrow slightly. It was like he knew I was in one of my rare moods of malice. I bit my tongue hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to draw blood and gripped the unpleasant man's hand in mine and shook it, though I refused to offer him a smile.
Clearly taken aback by my cold stare, Sebastian released my hand quickly and headed toward his desk. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck. "Well, grab a pew," he invited. "D'you need anything? Coffee, water?"
Sherlock and I shook our heads while John said, "No."
"No?" Sebastian clarified before looking to the secretary that guided us in. "We're all sorted here, thanks."
As the office door closed, Sebastian sat down in a large expensive-looking chair behind his desk. The three of us paused when we noted there were only two chairs.
"Go on," John said to me, gesturing to the seat.
"I can stand," Sherlock offered.
"I want to stand," I stated firmly while keeping my eyes on Sebastian.
"I'm so sorry, I could get a third chair in here," he said, starting to rise from his chair.
"No," I interjected tightly. "I'll stand."
John, who understood how I was when I got in these moods, sat down without further argument. Sherlock, meanwhile, looked from me to the open seat and hesitated.
"You're the reason we're here," I told the detective. "Sit."
Sherlock blinked, taken off guard by my sharp tone. He eyed me one last time before sitting down. I elected to start pacing slowly around the office, examining the sparsely stocked bookshelves on the walls.
"So, you're doing well," Sherlock said after an awkward pause. "You've been abroad a lot."
"Well, some," Sebastian admitted.
"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?" Sherlock folded his hands in front on him while propping his elbows on the armrests.
I turned to see John frowning with confusion, but Sebastian merely laughed and pointed at the detective.
"Right. You're doing that thing," he said. Sebastian looked at John and even cast me a small glance. "We were at uni together," he explained. "This guy here had a trick he used to do."
"It's not a trick," Sherlock said quietly.
There was something in Sherlock's voice that drew me to his side. I paused beside him and folded my arms, my eyes darting between him and Sebastian.
"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Sebastian went on, completely ignoring Sherlock.
"Yes, we've seen him do it," John said. He warily looked toward Sherlock and me. I could see a new strain in my brother's posture; seems I wasn't the only one who didn't like Sebastian.
"Put the wind up everybody," Sebastian said, still smiling. "We hated him."
Sherlock's gaze dropped and he tilted his head down as his expression flooded with the briefest flash of pain. My arms dropped to my sides and my jaw slackened slightly, astonished at the level of emotion I'd just witnessed.
"You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night," Sebastian went on.
"I simply observed," Sherlock murmured.
John didn't see the detective's shattered expression—his eyes had been on Sebastian—but he did notice my change in posture. He noticed my jaw clamp shut and my mouth twitch.
"Maddie, why don't you sit down." My brother abruptly got to his feet and strode around Sherlock's chair to grip my shoulder. "Go on. Weren't you feeling a bit off earlier? Probably the carsickness from the cab."
I had seen John able to lie his way through certain things when we were growing up; on occasion he was excellent at it. However, the majority of the time he was absolute rubbish. His words to me were clumsy and his eyes were pleading as he gestured to his now empty seat.
The thing was, I didn't get angry often. I wasn't an emotional person. Most of the time if something unpleasant happened around me, I would only show mild annoyance. However, John and I grew up together; he had seen the rare situations where I got legitimately mad. Apparently it wasn't something that was socially acceptable given how much he tried to stop any of my outbursts now that we were adults. Right now, I could tell he was trying to distract me—trying to tear my mind away from Sebastian until my moment of blinding rage passed.
"Oh, d'you need some water, Max?" Sebastian asked.
My head snapped back to face him. "Don't call me Max."
Sebastian actually winced at my tone. After a few blinks of shock, he laughed nervously and looked at Sherlock. "I think I understand why the two of you get on! Can she do the trick too?"
I narrowed my eyes toward Sebastian. If I could do the level of Sherlock's observations, I'd be thrilled. The detective's skills had set new heights for my own ambitions.
"Go on, enlighten me," Sebastian said, looking from me to Sherlock. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world—you're quite right. How can you tell?"
Sherlock began to open his mouth to reply, but Sebastian cut in with a smugness clinging to every word.
"You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan."
"No, I..." Sherlock tried again.
"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!" Sebastian crowed over him.
"Well, it certainly wasn't your civility and cultured manner," I whispered under my breath.
"Sorry?" Sebastian's cocky grin faded to a frown.
Sherlock shot me a small grin before turning back to Sebastian. "I was just speaking to your secretary outside. She told me.
That was a lie, but I followed Sherlock's logic. Such a simple explanation would annoy the hell out of a guy like Sebastian; and sure enough, Sebastian laughed humorlessly and shook his head. He clapped his hands together and grew more serious.
"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in," he said.