AN: Much thanks to Luli27 for the great reviews. For everyone else… waves hand You want to leave reviews. You will push the little purple button at the bottom of the page…

A nice long chapter for you, folks.

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Chapter Six: Forays and Detective Games

A shadowy figure padded down the dark street, footsteps nearly silent on the cobbles. The figure was Daria on a scouting foray, dressed in shirt and leggings of mottled gray, black, and dark brown. She'd learned long ago never to wear solid black to stay hidden in shadows- that only made the wearer a black figure in an almost black shadow, and therefore noticeable. Her mottled camouflage made her nearly invisible when she moved, and when she was still, she was invisible.

This wasn't the first such foray Daria had made in the past few weeks. She'd been going out late nearly every night, learning London's streets and byways. Only one cop had noticed the quiet wraith that slipped through the night, and that man had been easily shaken off. Very few people hunting a supposed thief would think to look for an alley cat, after all.

She came to a corner and froze before turning it. Voices came from the street that intersected hers, as did several steps of running feet.

"Hurry, Watson!"

"Don't let him get away!"

A figure dressed in black hurtled around the corner and slammed into Daria, knocking the Tau'ka to the ground. Without bothering to apologize, the stranger scrambled to his feet and took off again. Daria picked herself up, just in time to be intercepted by another person- a tall, lanky man in a long overcoat, who grabbed her by the shoulder.

"I've got him!" the man shouted to his companions.

She had absolutely no intention of meeting his comrades. Hissing like a cat, Daria simultaneously stomped on her captor's foot and rammed her left elbow back into his gut. When he released her with a yelp of pain, she dropped to a crouch and swept his legs out from under him. He crashed to the ground, landing in an undignified heap in the gutter. Jumping back to her feet, Daria caught a quick glance of the man's face- lean and hawk like, with an impressively beaky nose, contorted into a mask of surprise. She turned and pelted away, dodging down an alley as he stared after her, gasping.

The man's companions- a shorter, stockier man with a bushy mustache and a pair of cops, caught up with him. "Holmes!" the stocky man cried. "Are you alright?"

The man called Holmes scrambled to his feet. "I am perfectly fine, Watson," he assured his friend. "That little blighter caught me unawares. One must wonder where he learned such a trick."

"Which way did he go?" one of the cops demanded.

Holmes indicated the alley. "I saw him go in here."

"That's a dead-end alley, that is," the other cop said. "He'll still be in there."

The four men approached the alley and searched it for any sign of the thief they had been after. To their dismay, there was nothing living in the alley, except for a tabby cat with odd gray-green eyes.

Holmes eyed the cat, which was staring up at him with the oddest look. If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn the animal was laughing at him.

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Daria slipped through the gate surrounding the small garden that lay behind her townhouse an hour later, simultaneously amused and a little off-balanced. That encounter with the lanky Holmes had been a little close for her tastes, but she was still riding the tide of elation that came with a successful escape. Hanging around to watch the humans fumble over her trail had been rather amusing, though.

She looked up at a window on the second floor and gestured. It slid open at her command, allowing a skilled climber access to the room it opened on to, which happened to be her own. How convenient that she was a halfway-decent climber, and that there was a handy tree right by the window.

The Tau'ka scrambled up the tree and slipped inside, her shod feet making no noise on the wooden floor. At this point, she'd figured out where all the squeaky floorboards were and could avoid them in the dark. She slid her window shut and paused, listening for any sounds in the house. There were none- her staff were all still asleep. Satisfied she had not been detected, Daria changed out of her sneak clothes and into a nightgown, then stashed her mottled clothes in a locked chest that she hid under the high bed. Before she went to bed, however, she quickly typed up a brief report on the small computer she'd brought with her, describing her progress. It was annoyingly slow. London was a maze of rules, regulations, and customs, with a hierarchy that she had to work through. Her gender was a liability here- women were not supposed to be involved in the kind of work she did, and rarely got the chance to learn anything useful. This slowed her progress considerably.

Daria sighed as she typed her report. It irritated her that the Hawks were here and she couldn't do anything about them. She had almost reached the point where she was considering sneaking into Scotland Yard and looking for reports on Moriarty and his crime web. But that wouldn't do her any good, if Scotland Yard was as inept as Terref had made them out to be.

That thought made her pause. While Scotland Yard may be mostly useless, there was someone who might be able to help her. Terref had mentioned a detective called Sherlock Holmes who was supposed to know about Moriarty, hadn't he? She briefly recalled the man who had tried to catch her not two hours ago and dismissed the image. Holmes was probably a common name in these parts. She doubted that the two were the same man.

Satisfied, she made a note of her plans in her report, sent it, switched off the computer and stashed it, then climbed into bed.

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Daria went to call on Sherlock Holmes the next morning, but not without taking a few precautions. A disguise, of course, was necessary, and she had a good one. Makeup putty changed the shape of her jaw slightly, making it squarish rather than narrow. A colored powder, brushed into her hair, turned it redder, and hazel contact lenses hid her labradorite eyes admirably. Subtlety would be the key in this little venture. She had no doubts that she would be unable to be recognized should she be seen without her disguise- the change of eye color alone was very helpful in that matter.

She rapped smartly on the door of 221-B Baker Street. A middle-aged woman wearing an apron opened the door and looked her over carefully.

"May I help you?" the woman asked.

Daria wrung her hands, playing the part of a distraught young woman seeking help. "Oh, please, I need to speak to Mister Holmes immediately. It's quite urgent," she said, injecting a bit of anxiety into her voice.

"Mister Holmes is not in," the woman replied.

"Oh dear," Daria, biting her lower lip. "Please, will he be gone long? May I wait for him?" The trick here was to look anxious and nervous, playing up to any motherly sentiments the woman might have, but without seeming panicked or hysterical. "I really need to talk to him."

The woman- probably a housekeeper or the owner of the house- frowned. "I suppose so," she said. "He should be back fairly soon, but who knows with him? Come in, then, child."

Daria was led into a sitting-room that had to be the most interesting place she'd been in weeks, including that pub by the docks she'd scouted out last week. It seemed to be half parlor and half laboratory and workroom. Bookshelves were crammed full of encyclopedias, files, and listings, and an extensive chemistry set was set up on a table. Papers were scattered all over the place, some in a neat, legible scribble and some in an entirely unreadable scrawl. A scent of tobacco hung in the air, which prompted her to wrinkle her nose in distaste. She turned to look at the other half of the room and raised an eyebrow at the sight of Queen Victoria's initials on the wall, traced out in…

Are those bullet holes?

"Mister Holmes did those a while back," the housekeeper said from behind her. "Scared my other tenants half to death, he did. I brought you some tea, Miss…?"

"Nelson," Daria said, accepting the tea tray. "Maria Nelson. I can wait here?"

"Yes," she replied. "Ring if you need anything." The housekeeper left, leaving Daria alone.

The Tau'ka returned to her inspection of the detective's home. Bachelor quarters, she knew immediately. If Holmes had a wife, the lady would never have allowed the front parlor to be such a mess.

Kind of reminds me of MY quarters, actually, Daria thought. There was evidence that Holmes lived with one other person at least part of the time, however- she could see that two of the chairs were worn in very particular ways, as if two men each claimed one as their favorite. That also explained the two different sets of handwriting on the papers. A look at said papers showed her that the tidy handwriting belonged to the chemist, while the writing on the nearly illegible ones was mainly concerned with the exploits of Sherlock Holmes, as recorded by one Dr. Watson. She concluded that the chemist was Holmes himself, and Dr. Watson was his roommate.

She paused by a stand containing several pieces of sheet music. Wonder which is the violin player? she thought, looking at the title on the music. The stand was set up by one of three closed doors that led off from the front room. She looked at the doors, considering for a moment, then chose to stay out front, knowing that she shouldn't push her luck. She didn't want that housekeeper getting suspicious.

The Tau'ka returned to the bookshelves. Encyclopedias did make up most of their contents, but they were heavily intermixed with files and listings. Everything he needs to know is right here, she realized. Very useful. She picked out one of the heavy books, took it to a chair, and settled herself down to start reading it. She found it a difficult read in and of itself, and her unfamiliarity with the written English language hampered her efforts further. Daria knew enough of it to get by, but the volume she'd picked out was one full of unfamiliar technical terms.

Daria struggled with the encyclopedia as a way to pass the time, and her patience was rewarded nearly an hour after her arrival. Footsteps in the outside hall caught her attention, as did the arrival of male voices. She set the encyclopedia aside and stood next to the chair she'd claimed.

The door opened and two men entered. One was short, stocky, and had a bushy mustache, while his companion was very tall and lanky, with a birdlike profile. Daria forcibly hid her surprise as she recognized the man from the previous night's scouting foray- apparently Holmes wasn't such a common surname after all. She silently berated herself for dismissing the possible connection.

Holmes looked her over critically. "And how might I help you, young lady?" he asked.

Daria bobbed a curtsy. "My name is Maria Nelson. I had heard that you are a great investigator, and I do need your help."

"I see." Holmes waved her back to the chair. "Please sit down, Miss Nelson. This is my associate, Dr. Watson. You may speak in to him as you would to me."

The doctor nodded as he and Holmes sat. "Go on, Miss Nelson," he said pleasantly.

Daria was struck by the two men and how different they were. While Dr. Watson seemed warm and friendly enough, Holmes came across as a cold, calculating creature of logic, sharp as the edge of a blade. He reminded her of Master Agent Felis in that respect- both he and the Head of Intelligence had that air of a predator about them, a predator that hunted information as their prey. She would have to step carefully around this human.

"Well," she said, "It's about my brothers, you see. I'm afraid they're in great trouble, or will be soon." Over the past several hours, Daria had worked up a cover story that should let her get the information she needed. "They're twins, older than I am by a few years. They used to work with my uncle at his newspaper."

"I see," Holmes said, his face devoid of any emotion. "Your uncle would be Terrence Nelson of the East End Intelligence, am I right?"

Daria nodded, her estimation of Holmes rising a few points. Terref did indeed own the East End Intelligence. "Yes. I do some secretary work for him. Have you heard of the recent break-ins at the Royal Museum?"

The detective arched one eyebrow. "Of course I have," he said simply. "I determined that they were a part of Professor Moriarty's work."

She cast her gaze down at her hands, which she had folded in her lap. "That's part of the problem, sir. My father is an archaeologist working down in Egypt- that's why my brothers and I were sent to live with our uncle. A few of the items in the Museum's Egyptian collection were discovered by him. They were all among the items that were stolen. My brothers have fallen into bad company in recent years and I fear that they may have joined up with this Professor Moriarty." There, she thought, satisfied. Simple, plausible, and not so complex it can't be believed. There's even a Shadow Agent down in Cairo at the moment who is an archaeologist in contact with Terref who can vouch for me.

"And you wish me to investigate whether this is true, and whether they were responsible for the theft of your father's donations." Holmes said it in such a way that it seemed a statement rather than a request.

"I would like to know everything you could tell me about the Professor's organization," she replied. Both men started in surprise.

"Miss Nelson, I don't believe that's wise," Watson said, frowning. "My dear girl-"

"I just need to know what to look for," Daria said. "My uncle and father, they're not very strong, and they absolutely adore my brothers. Either one would collapse if they thought the twins were acting in concert with-" she swallowed hard, playing the part of the properly bred female, who of course was supposed to be sheltered from anything like this, "-with criminals. I want to find out if they are in trouble myself. If I brought in someone like you, Mister Holmes, well…I don't want them getting involved if I can prevent it."

"I see, Miss Nelson," Holmes said meditatively. "You want to do your own detective work."

"Yes, Mister Holmes."

"Holmes!" Watson cried exasperatedly. "You cannot possibly be considering letting this poor girl do what she is proposing!" He looked at Daria. "My dear, Homes is very discreet with what he does. Let him investigate."

"My brothers would be alerted if I brought anyone in, Dr. Watson." Daria said. "If they are up to something wrong, I have to find out before my uncle does."

"Are you certain that your brothers may be working for Moriarty?" Holmes asked.

The Tau'ka glanced down shyly. "Yes, sir. I went with one of the reporters to cover one of the Museum thefts and spoke to the man who witnessed it. He described the twins perfectly. If the thefts are the Professor's work, then I have to conclude that they were working on his orders."

"A good deduction, Miss Nelson."

"Holmes, really!"

Daria bit back a smile. It sounded as if she nearly had the detective convinced. The taller man turned to his friend.

"Miss Nelson seems to be capable of pulling this off, Watson," he said. "While the conclusion she made was a simple one, it was solid. If she can do that, I believe she may indeed be able to determine the truth of the matter. As long as you are careful," he added sharply to her. She nodded eagerly. "Very well then, Miss Nelson. I'll have Mrs. Hudson bring us some tea and I'll tell you what you wish to know."

"Oh, thank you, Mister Holmes!" Daria cried delightedly, clapping her hands together.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, brought in more tea and then Holmes settled down to tell all about the operations of Professor James Moriarty. He spoke for nearly an hour, detailing what he knew about Moriarty's past exploits and describing his web of crime. The details he gave her weren't enormously in-depth, but Daria was willing to give him that- for now. She had seen the file marked 'Moriarty' on the shelves.

When Daria left, Holmes sat back in his favorite chair. He saw the scathing look Watson was giving him. "You are wanting to know why I told her all of that," he said mildly.

"Well, yes!" the doctor exploded. "Holmes, you must be mad. Sending a girl to do your job? It's unthinkable! She's a secretary, for Heaven's sake!"

The detective shook his head. "Miss Nelson- if that is indeed her real name- is anything but a secretary. She is a spy."

Watson gaped at him, flabbergasted. "A spy?" he spluttered. "What are you saying?"

Holmes smiled slightly. "Of course she is a spy, Watson. Even you should have seen that she did not have the ink stains on her hands or sleeves that would come with doing secretary work, nor did she have the shiny patches on the elbows and wrists of her dress that would come from long hours of resting her arms upon a desk."

The doctor blinked. "I can't say I say that, Holmes," he admitted. "But, a spy?"

"I shall provide you with the list. Firstly, her hair is colored- there was a small amount of red dust on her shoulder. I imaging that she used that powder to tint her hair."

"That could have been street dust."

Holmes shook his head. "She was nowhere near a location with red dust- the dust on her shoes and hem was dark gray. Secondly, she chose to sit in the single chair in this room that would let her watch every single exit and entrance. Such positioning is a sign of someone who has to watch out for herself- a criminal or a spy would fit into this category. Not only that , but she watched all the entrances. She wanted to be sure that she could run if she had to."

"So she could either be a thief or a spy. You still haven't said who you knew she was the agent."

"I am coming to that, Watson." He sipped his tea calmly. "There were three other factors that gave Miss Nelson away. Did you happen to notice her hands at all?"

Watson shook his head, causing Holmes to sigh in disappointment. "Really, I thought you would have learned by now. A person's hands are perhaps the best way to determine what a person does for a living. Miss Nelson had callused hands, very unusual in a lady. I believe she does a fair amount of fencing or other swordplay. In addition, when we came in she had been reading last year's encyclopedia- it's still on the table over there. Now tell me of a petty thief who would be interested in reading that, my friend. And lastly, her accent."

"An accent is innocent enough."

"Perhaps on its own, Watson, but she was trying to hide it. English is not her first language- her occasional mangling of syntax proved that, although she must have had an excellent teacher. I believe I would place her first language as being one from northern Africa."

"From Egypt, perhaps."

"That is very likely. I would conclude that a fair part of her story has at least some basis in truth just to throw us off. Now, can you name any profession where an educated, sword-trained, foreign female would have to be on constant alert and in situations where she would have to be able to disguise herself and weave a convincing story? Watson, she is indeed a spy."

Watson looked troubled. "But who is she spying for?"

"I can't say for certain, not yet. However, we cannot rule out the possibility that Moriarty himself sent her to find out what I know about him."

His friend looked shocked. "And you told her everything!"

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Of course I didn't. Most of what I told her was older information- practically useless, but it would provide Miss Nelson with what she claimed she wanted to know. And if I failed to tell her anything, Moriarty would have known I'd seen through his game. No, my friend, I did exactly what I had to do. I rather doubt we'll be hearing from Miss Maria Nelson again in the near future." He stood, walked over to his music stand, and picked up his violin. "Now, do you have any requests, Watson?"