Chapter 3

I sighed as I hit the ground. It was grassy and wet, and soft dirt was underneath. I stood up and found my soft-soled, one inch, black shoes caked with mud all the way up the heel. I mentally noted to reprimand Patch for almost ruining my shoes.

A cab was waiting at the curb of the road. I flashed my badge at the driver. He smiled.

"How ya doin', Abigail? You sure yu'r ready fer this 'un?

"Allen, the only thing you need to worry about is how quickly you can get me to the location previously given to you." I said as I climbed into the back.

"Why s'at?"

"Because I have a huge wad of cash that I was told to give to you if you got me to the location in less than 40 minutes after I got in the car."

"Buckle up missie! You know how to make a man drive!

I watched the scenery fly by. Cows, horses, crows, goats, flowers, fields, all a blur under the storm clouds.

"Do you not have assignment papers?" He asked. "They always have those in the movies."

"No sir. Have it all up here." I tapped my temple.

He shrugged.

Few people know there is a group of teens that train like the FBI (or MI5, for British or British-at-heart). Absolutely no one except the trainees really know anything beyond that.

Thirty-seven and a half minutes later we drove into the city. It was huge and beautiful. I noted that the sky was clear blue. Judging by the way the wind was headed, and that there wasn't any water in sight here, the storm was still on the way.

Allen handed me a map.

"How much?" I asked.

"It's not every day I get a pretty young girl in this old thing. Free of charge."

"Thank you." I looked through it, and realized I was in London England.

A moment later we pulled up to the curb.

"221B Baker Street, miss."

"Thank you." Not really hearing what he said. (I had been going over all the things that had occurred in the past six hours. I had been an hour into the class when I passed out, and slept the rest of it.) We were three minutes over, but I passed him the extra wad anyway.

"Now miss, that ain't fair. I was three minutes late."

"Generosity is my specialty. Besides, it's not every day I meet such an honest cab driver. We'll just pretend you were on time." I winked knowingly at him.

"That's quite kind, and I appreciate it." He took the money, and tucked it in a pocket.

"Before you go, where did you pick me up?" I asked. He smirked.

"Scadbury Park." Then he drove off.

I straitened and turned to face the apartment building. I realized with a shock that I was before a great man's place of business. A great man named Sherlock Holmes.

First I went for my phone, and in my pocket was the newest version of the IPhone. So this was the Sherlock of the 21st century. Well, the clothes, styles, and automobiles also spoke of 21st, but I liked my phone.

The edges of my lips curved up slightly. I have admired (well, when I say admired, I mean 'had a crush on') Sherlock for a year or so, now. I was pleased I would get to meet him in person.

I stepped up to the door. My hand was raised to knock, when I had a cold chill down my back. I glanced around, expecting a gun to my back, but found no one. I shook my head to clear it. 'Have it all up here,' I had told the cabby. That's all it was. Or, so I thought.

As I glanced around, I saw a flash of blonde hair at a cafe down the road. I watched him carefully for a moment. He moved the paper enough that I was able to see his face. It was Sherlock's closest friend and companion, John Watson. He took a sip of coffee, and, judging by the angle at which he tipped it, he had just sat down a few minutes ago, and I knew that Patch had timed it perfectly. I would have a few minutes alone with Sherlock. That thought made me turn pink for a moment.

I knocked. An elderly woman answered the door.

"Yes?" She asked.

"Are you Mrs. Hudson?"

She looked stunned. "Yes, but who are you? And how do you know me?"

"My name is Abigail. I came to see Mr. Holmes."

Her eyes went wide. "Ooh, your the girl I was told to let in. Come right inside. Sherlock's up in his room, first door you come to."

I stood at the bottom of the stairs and fiddled with my hair for a moment. Then I thanked Mrs. Hudson for her cooperation and headed up the stairs.

I glided up carefully, staying close to the railing where squeaks would be less likely. There was silence from upstairs. I finally reached the top and paused at the door marked '221B'. I raised my hand, and, gathering my guts, I knocked. The door opened inward slowly from the light force of my knock. I stepped in and glanced around at the mess.

Dust covered some of the tables and untouched books. Others had thick dark lines through them, showing that someone had run their finger across it. There were shattered glass beakers on the counter of the kitchen, books opened on the table, chemicals still in some of the glass tubes. Estimating by the amount of heat in some, they had been used in the past ten minutes. I stepped back into the living room, my back to the door.

"Mr. Holmes? I know your listening. I need a few favors in return for my service. "

Nothing. There were no sounds coming from any back rooms or upstairs. I took a deep breath.

"Mr. Holmes," I said with more annoyance. I sighed. "Does the name Alexander Shapleton mean anything to you?"

More silence.

"Well, thought I would ask." I turned around to leave, and there he was, standing only a foot away from me in the doorway, making me nearly run into him. As it was, I stepped back and gave a surprised gasp, almost ready to scream. The man at the door, however, leapt forward and clamped one hand around my head, the other over my mouth, preventing any...ahh... loud noises.

He had slightly long, curly black hair, extremely light blue-green eyes and sharp features. He wore a dark purple button up shirt, casual suit jacket and black pants. his shirt was slightly crumpled, like he had gone a day or two without the thought of sleep. 'Typical Sherlock, ' I thought to myself.

"You said Shapleton?" He asked with his sharp baritone vibrato, which I find rather cute. He let go of my mouth slowly, in case I was still in the mood to scream. I kept a strait face, which is rather hard to do when one of the only guys that you have a huge crush on willingly touches you.

"So that's what caught your attention?"

"In a way."

I smiled, brushing my short, brunet hair from my eyes. "I'm Abigail Bennet with the Teens Secret Service. You are Sherlock Holmes, I presume."

"You have that correct. Coffee?"

"N.." I started, then decided now would be no worse than ever to try it. And it was an odd thing for Sherlock to offer to do anything, so I had better take advantage of it. "Yes, actually, I think I would."

Sherlock gestured to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, then strode into the kitchen. I took my knee length tweed coat off, thankful that there wasn't a fire going; it was already quite warm in the flat. A few minutes later he returned with two large mugs of coffee, one of which he handed to me, then he placed the cream and sugar on a small table between us. I watched as Sherlock scooped two sugars into his. I did about the same, but added a good bit of milk to hopefully nullify the strong flavor I could almost taste from the smell.

"You've never had coffee before." Sherlock said, not as a question, simply justifying the facts.

I felt my ears get a little hot. "No, I haven't." I had hoped he wouldn't see that right off.

"I thought not, since first you carefully considered your answer to my question about coffee, watched as I made my own cup, then put as much sugar in your drink as I do mine. You may not like it, it being much more powerful than tea." I took a small sip. 'Almost too powerful,' I thought, adding about another tablespoon of cream and two of sugar. I noted him smirk out of the corner of my eye.

I thought a moment. "Why do you think I like tea?" I asked carefully, wording it so I was not giving away the fact that I do like tea.

"There is a tea stain on your collar. The only likely way it could have gotten there is if it had dripped from the cup as you were sipping it. And seeing that you sip slowly and carefully what you drink, and that you have kept a well-used, large bag almost spotless, you obviously try not to spill it. This leans toward the fact that you were in a hurry to leave. To get here? No. Your quite calm, thus you do not have a case, unfortunately." he said longingly, taking a small draft of his own drink. "So what were you in a hurry for? You said you were with TSS, thus, since it was recently this morning, you had to leave to get to the transporter, which can only stay powered for a few minutes."

There was more silence for a moment, then I got the nerve to ask: "So, are you going to ask me any more questions?"

"I will, when I am ready." Another awkward pause.

"What have you deduced about me so far? Besides that I was in a hurry, judged from the tea stain "

"Are you sure you want me to answer?"

I nodded.

"One question. How far was John into his coffee when you glanced at him?"

"He had just sat down." I said immediately.

Sherlock gave a small chuckle. "Good. I had hoped you would notice. I think I will let John have a go at it first."

Just then, the door down stairs opened then closed quietly. Footsteps began up the stairs.

"Sherlock?" Came the voice of the ex-military doctor. Tenor, and softer than Sherlock's, but still holding command. I stood as he entered the room. Sherlock stayed where he was.

"Blue berry muffin for you Sherlock, and your face is nowhere to be seen in the news tod..." His voice melted in his throat as his eyes landed on me. "I am so sorry for interrupting, please forgive me." Then began to leave.

"No, wait!" I requested. "Please don't go. We were just talking about you."

"Really?" He asked suspiciously, giving Sherlock a look.

"Yes. I was going to let you do some deduction on your own." Sherlock gave a quick, childish grin to John, then went to his couch, where he stretched himself out and shut his eyes.

John glanced from him to me slowly, then sat across from me, in the chair Sherlock had been sitting in. He eyed me carefully. I sat back down in my chair and sipped the coffee delicately, then set it down, vowing not to take another drink of the horrid stuff. I glanced back at John, who looked quite confused.

"Dr. Watson?" I asked, slightly lost at why he was confused.

"I... Sorry. Sherlock?"

"Just tell me what you see. Eliminate the impossible. Then what ever is left, no matter how mad it might seem, must be true."

"I know that. But..."

"Just tell me what you see." He repeated.

"Alright... Well, you have the manners and posture of a highly trained soldier. You have been through some sort of military training. No makeup, except a base and a bit of mascara, and a lighter base under the eyes to cover more permanent dark circles." He thought for a moment. "Allergies?"

I nodded.

"But you aren't sneezing, or have any other problems, so not dust, and you don't usually get that kind of thing with food," He paused. "Pollen?"

I gave a half smile and nodded.

"Yes, John, wonderful!" Sherlock said sarcastically. "You found her allergy! Now, how old is she?" He demanded.

"Well...the training your build suggests does not usually take place until college, and your outfit is expensive and well thought through, so I would say... 23?"

"No, John. Look at the license!"

"License?"

He walked over and had me stand. He took my shoulders and turned me so that John could see the belt clip with my wallet and license dangling from it. "The birth date was in '98. She's sixteen."

"It's true. Sorry Dr. Watson." I said meaningfully. He let go and and went back to his perch. I sat down yet again.

"But that leaves me a question. Your training. Do they give US citizens that kind of training at fourteen or fifteen?"

"No. I'm with the TSS. Teens secret service. We start training in combat at thirteen."

"So why are you here? Are you on a mission of some kind?"

"Actually, I need a place to lay low for a month or so."

"Are you in trouble?" Asked John.

"Well, in a way. Ares is after me."

John held up a hand. "Wait. who's Ares?"

"The God of War, according to Greek mythology." Sherlock stated.

"He... well... yes, that's true. He is also my... old friend, who took that name. He takes over peoples minds, in a way. Most murders and suicides were put in their head by Ares. He is a psychopath. We, my team and I, are his bane. See, he has built his power up so much in the past ten to twelve years that he has become, well, an overlord. He has a spy in the network, so I was sent here in the confidence of our director and a few co-workers, which would allow us to narrow down if the spy was in the council or the trainees. It was also to hopefully prevent Ares from chasing me as soon as I got here.

"I've been going for six months, either with training or missions, and I'm wiped. So Alexander Shapleton, our TSS director, sent me here for vacation. He told me I could relax for a few weeks before i needed to come back, as long as I helped the owner of the house in some way. Had I known it was the reputed Sherlock Holmes..."

"So, you've heard of us?" John asked.
"Heard of you?! I have been keeping tabs on you for about three years now! There isn't a blog I haven't read, and there wouldn't be on The Science of Deduction, had you not deleted the tabasco ash article," I said pointedly in Sherlock's direction.

"You want to read it?" He asked in surprise, opening one eye to deduce if I was lying.

"Uhh, yeah!"

"Hmm." He mused. "I'll make sure you get it. Now John, are you done looking?" He shut his eyes again.

"What?" John asked, not understanding Sherlock's question. "Oh, yeah!" He leaned forward toward me. "Excuse anything he says or does!"

I nodded. Sherlock preferred to pace from the couch to the fireplace and back, over and over again, only glancing at me occasionally. He was silent for a moment, then suddenly took off at high speed.

"I know that you are sixteen, obvious from the points already made. You have a reputation to uphold, told by the way you are dressed. Your shoes speak of someone used to running and being quiet in a moment. Your necklace, taken care of, but also well worn around the edges, meaning you have a tendency to rub it beneath your finger. It has sentimental value then. Possibly, someone you consider close gave it to you, about ten years ago most likely. Ah-ha! Your parents then!" He exclaimed excitedly. I had grabbed my necklace like a security blanket. I realized I had twisted it, so that the back (where the engraving was) pointed out. I nodded. "Thought so. You take your job seriously. Your haircut and outfit attest to it. Also, I have met some other members of the TSS who do not attempt at anything remotely close to what you have on. A fan of the Hunger Games, Lord of the Rings, Avengers, Leverage, and myself, it appears."

I blushed, realizing my bag had my five favorite things attached in pins on the front.

"You were in a garden recently, more specifically, in Scadbury Park."

I gave him a surprised but confused look. He raised an eyebrow and turned to John.

"Do you get it?" He asked, turning to Dr. Watson.

"Not in the slightest." John answered.

He sighed. "Your shoes have a dark brown soil around the edges, which is still wet in places, but the thinner parts are dry. From some observations on other people I have made before, it would have taken about forty to sixty minutes to dry at that thickness. The soil isn't very rich, but there are rose and petunia petals on your shoe. Obviously, there would be a greenhouse nearby. So, the only place in a sixty minute radius with a greenhouse and has had rain in the past two hours or so would be Scadbury Park." He held up his phone, showing me the screen. I rolled my eyes.

"You also mentioned an old friend. You had to think about how to phrase that, so obviously you were protecting his identity. Maybe someone that was close to you before he turned evil. A boyfriend, or a cousin. Maybe your father? No, you wouldn't wear the necklace." He continued to mutter to himself.

I turned my head from him, my heart wanting to burst in my chest. I knew he was good, but this was too far.

"My brother." I hissed, interrupting his rant.

"What did you say?" John asked. Sherlock went silent.

"My brother." I said a bit louder. "My older brother is Ares."

.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.

Thank you all so much for keeping with it! I know it was mean to keep you waiting, but it took longer than expected to update and I am sorry!

As usual, I don't own Sherlock, or BBC. :'(

Also, I think I figured out how to update C. 1. So, Giraffekid, I rewrote it! ;^)

Love it? Like it? Suggestions for how rude Sherlock should get? Hater mail? I love it all! (Except the last...)

Thank you all again! -Pianist