Note: My apologies for the outrageous delay in updating. RL got tough, then proceeded to give me and mine a right proper kicking. Be not alarmed, though…this little work will be completed! To all of my readers, those silent and those talkative, I thank you all. Bestest wishies to every one of you.
Disclaimer: There is no ownership going on here. Not even in Linear B. Promise.
The Problem With Disguises
A Plan
She walks into the living area, carrying the tea tray.
She looks at him quite fondly, while he will not see. He is lying on her sofa, his lower legs flung a little carelessly over the arm at the end, feet awkwardly dangling in mid-air. It does not look comfortable. He seems perfectly happy though, eyes closed, fingers waving in time to music only he can hear.
It is now late in the evening, and they have been extremely busy.
He has laid out, quite plainly, the thrust of his plan. He is awaiting her opinion. She will not pretend that this isn't a compliment. She is not sure that he has ever chosen to share the complexities of his schemes before, with anyone. But these are desperate times.
She gathers herself, and her thoughts, not wanting to disturb him for as long as possible. Not whilst he is seemingly so content. So relaxed. She allows herself the luxury of running her eyes over him, unfettered by the chains of his observation. Her internal points of notice are almost too vulgar for her to admit, even to herself (he is, after all, something and somebody completely distinct from her previous experience of people and certainly of men), so she chooses not to think too consciously as she does so. Her eyes meander over him, slowly, without being stilled by any particular feature, until her gaze settles on a damp, newly dyed lock of hair resting on his forehead.
The hair situation (as she had named it) has indeed been rectified. She is astonished that a man who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of chemistry had apparently never heard of the strand test being used for dyeing purposes. Hence his arriving with the most glaringly blonde locks she'd ever encountered. She had brought this to his attention, for him to counter that the only strand tests he'd ever conducted had been looking for alcohol, narcotics, or poisons.
Fair point.
He, on the other hand, is astonished that she has contrived to change his hair to what she insists she can describe a 'dirty blonde'. Ever the dominatrix.
She puts the tea tray down, and his eyes flash open at the noise. He pulls himself up into a seated position, limbs folding and moving in a way that could easily be construed as slightly clumsy, but that she knows is deft, measured. She loves to watch him move.
He looks at her, curiously. "What do you think?" he asks. He genuinely wants to know, though she can tell from his tone that he doubts no part of his plan.
She inclines her head a little as she picks up the teapot to pour. "I'll be mother." There is a sudden bark of laughter from Sherlock and she looks up, moderately startled.
He is smiling widely. "Mycroft said that to me, at the Palace."
She smiles back at him, as she begins to pour the tea. "I would imagine you made some kind of cutting remark about your childhood in reply?"
His tone is dry. "Something of the sort." By now, he has learned that such an accurate guess from her speaks of her advanced grasp of people and their interactions. He is no longer as surprised by her extraordinary leaps of social awareness as he once was.
He watches her as she adds the necessary milk and sugar to their cups, every action firmly regulated and precise. Too, too precise. "You think my plan flawed?"
The clink of the teaspoon on fine china ceases as she glances towards him, replying wryly. "The student has surpassed the master."
A beat. A gleam of humour. "Does that mean it is my turn with the riding crop?" He cannot help himself, on occasion.
She lets loose a short, but quiet, throaty chuckle. "Don't walk before you can run, my dear," she mutters, passing him his cup of tea.
He watches whilst she seats herself. Her eyes catch his. "I can help you during your short stay in Africa."
He does not try to hide his shock. "Really? You have contacts there?" She merely nods slowly and definitely. He takes that as her word. She would not play with him, not when it comes to this. Certainly not now. He observes her in silence for upwards of a minute. Then he realises. "That is not the major problem?"
She lets out a miniscule sigh and then squares her shoulders a touch. When she speaks, her voice is serious and brooks no argument.
"Moran is going to be a problem. The problem."
His disbelief must be writ large on his face, as she continues, her voice more urgent. "No, you cannot trust him, Sherlock. I know him. Well…"
"You know what he likes?" he interrupts, a tad too sharply.
She is mild in her answer. "Hard to say what he really likes, but I can have a better guess than most."
"Do you know what everybody likes?" he bites out. He does not know why this knowledge irritates him so.
She does not rise to him. In fact, quite the opposite. "No. Some people always remain a mystery to me. It's good. Wouldn't want my life to get boring, would we?"
They fall into silence, and she sees, once more, the great detective drop into a short fugue state. His head lists off to one side, his eyes unfocussed. He is processing.
After a few long moments, his attention snaps back to her. "He really is that bad?"
A hard nod in the affirmative. "Don't believe a word he utters. Ever. He is a barely functioning psychopath. I mean it, Sherlock. He is almost as unpredictable as his former master."
His eyes twitch, but then his curiosity returns in full force. "And you had…dealings with him?"
It is a curiosity she appreciates, but one that they both know she will not satisfy. "In a manner of speaking, yes. It appears that I find barely functional psychopaths slightly easier to control than highly functional sociopaths." She winks at him in jest. "Only just, though."
"Thanks for the compliment." He looks genuinely bemused. "If it is one."
Warm laughter is her response. "Oh, it is, Mr Miller. I have always adored a challenge."
"I am not surprised," he says, quite softly. For a few minutes the quiet reigns once more, and they sit there, sipping at their tea companionably.
After a while, his cup is almost empty and he places it onto his saucer with a remarkably audible clink. He breaks the verbal silence.
"So. Africa."
She smiles once more. "Yes. Africa."
It is risky. They know that Mycroft will discover her at some stage. They make a sound backup plan for her further disappearance. Another place. Yet another identity. One where the her name will be, in no way at all, grain related.
What they don't yet know is that they will both be surprised when his brother walks up to their table at a small restaurant in Khartoum. Though, perhaps, not as surprised as Mycroft will be. He will have heard that his brother has been travelling with a woman, off and on; they will, however, never have been seen together in any camera footage. He, therefore, will never have guessed that said female was The Woman.
After all, she is very much dead.
But that is not the story of now. Now, they continue to polish the plan, talking even later into the evening.