A/N: I love how she interacts with Mycroft. You'll love it, too. ...I hope...
Dates and Arch-Enemies
Seven minutes. It takes us seven minutes to find the pink suitcase. I lead Sherlock and John to a skip in a back alleyway. I walk right up to it, move a black plastic bag and pull the suitcase out.
"Ta-da!" I smirk. John looks at me in shock. Sherlock tilts his head in curiosity.
"Post-cognition and psychometry?" he asks. I nod. "What else can you do?" I shrug and hand him the case.
"I'll explain everything later," I respond. "Maybe. Right now, I'd like to get back to the flat and figure this case out."
I start to walk towards the main street, John following right behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see Sherlock watching me for a second, before he bends over and picks up the black plastic bag, wrapping the pink case in it, and moving to catch up with us. I raise my eyebrow.
"There is a reason the murderer tried to dispose of it," he explains. I shrug.
"Oh, I know," I respond. "Just never thought you'd be one for vanity." He tilts his head to the side.
"Vanity?" he asks. I shrug again and turn back towards the street.
"The murderer had a valid reason for not wanting to be seen with the case," I explain. "It would tie him back to the murder. Someone would see it and think it strange. You, on the other hand, don't have that reason. You're working on the case to find the murderer. You have a valid reason to be seen with the case. And yet, you choose to hide it. Vanity."
Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. He has no rebuttal, and he knows it, his eyes widening slightly. John starts laughing just as we make it to the curb. I grin widely at Sherlock, before turning away.
"Taxi!"
The three of us get into the cab, John giving the cabbie the address. We ride in silence for most of the trip. Sherlock is sitting with the suitcase in his lap, looking out the window. John keeps throwing amused glances between me and Sherlock. I speak up.
"Stop pouting, Sherlock," I chide. "It's very childish." John chuckles.
"You haven't known him long enough to see the irony in that statement," he says, grinning.
"I am not pouting and I am not childish," Sherlock argues. I grin at him.
"Uh-huh," I say, "because I totally believe that." Sherlock glares at me, and I laugh. "Know when you are beaten, Sherlock."
The three of us get out of the cab in front of 221 Baker ST. I step around to pay the cab as Sherlock and John walk towards the door, Sherlock striding right up the stairs to their flat. John stands at the door waiting for me. I head towards him.
"Thanks," I say, walking into the building. I head towards Mrs. Hudson's door. "You go on ahead, John. I need to finish some things up with Mrs. Hudson."
"Sure," he replies, nodding. "I'll see you later?" I nod.
"As soon as I'm done down here, if it's not too late," I answer. "I'll be up to see if Sherlock's figured anything else."
John walks up the stairs as I knock on Mrs. Hudson's door. A minute later, she opens it.
"Oh, hello Kat," she greets. "What can I do for you?"
"Hi, Mrs. Hudson," I reply. "I'm here about the rent."
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"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," I call, walking out her door. It's been ten minutes since I last saw Sherlock and John.
"No problem, dear. It's all yours now," she responds. I grin. Now I've just got to get some furniture for it, and I can move in. I'm just about to head upstairs when I hear Sherlock and John coming down. John waves at me, looking miffed.
"We're headed out," he says. "Wanna come?"
"Sure," I nod, walking with them. We head out the door. "Where are we going?" I ask.
"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here," Sherlock states. I look at John, confused.
"I'll explain in when we get… wherever it is we're going," he tells me before turning to Sherlock, asking "you think he's stupid enough to go there?" Sherlock smiles.
"No," he replies. "I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught." I tilt my head to the side, frowning.
"Why?" John asks.
"Appreciation!" Sherlock answers excitedly. "Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John, Kat: It needs an audience." John and I share a look.
"Yeah," John says.
"Where've we seen that before?" I finish sarcastically. Sherlock looks at us obliviously before spinning.
"This is his hunting ground," he says, "right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go." He puts his hands up on either side of his face like he's trying to focus his thoughts. "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" he asks.
"Dunno," John replies. "Who?" Sherlock shrugs.
"Haven't the faintest," he answers. "Hungry?"
"Starving," I respond. John nods.
Sherlock leads us to a small restaurant. Walking inside, the waiter gestures to a reserved table at the front window.
"Thank you, Billy," Sherlock says, taking his coat off. He sits down on the bench seat at the side of the table and immediately turns sideways so he can watch out the window. Billy takes the 'Reserved' sign off the table, and John and I sit down. Sherlock nods to a building across the street. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."
"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, is he?" John asks. "He'd need to be mad."
"He has just killed four people," I respond, assuming he's talking about the murderer.
"…Okay," he responds as a man comes over to our table, clearly pleased to see Sherlock.
"Sherlock," he says, reaching out to shake Sherlock's hand. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." He places a couple of menus on the table. "On the house, for you, your friend and your date." Sherlock turns toward John and me without looking away from the building across the street.
"Do you want to eat?" he asks us. I turn to the man.
"I'm not his date," I say. He's clearly ignoring me, pointing at Sherlock.
"This man got me off a murder charge," he says. Sherlock butts in.
"This is Angelo," he explains as the man, Angelo, offers his hand to John, who shakes it. "Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking." I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I see Sherlock glance at me quickly, but he turns back to the window before I can look at him.
"He cleared my name," Angelo says. I roll my eyes.
"I cleared it a bit," Sherlock responds. "Anything happening opposite?"
"Nothing," Angelo answers before turning back to me and John. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."
"You did go to prison," Sherlock replies. I snort and three pairs of eyes turn towards me.
"Sorry," I say. Angelo turns to me.
"I'll get a candle for the table," he says. "It's more romantic."
"I'm not his date!" I snap, but it's no good. Angelo is already walking away. "I'm not your date," I mumble to Sherlock as he puts his menu down onto the table. John laughs.
"You may as well eat," he says. "We might have a long wait."
"You're not eating?" I ask as Angelo comes back.
"He doesn't eat when he's on a case," John answers. Angelo has a small glass bowl with a lit tea-light in it. He puts it on the table and gives me a thumbs-up—I glare back at him—before turning and walking away.
"That's stupid," I mutter. John and Sherlock both look at me. "Your body needs food. Not eating when you're on a case is like refusing to stop for gas when taking a road trip from one coast of the US to the other. You're only going to burn yourself out." Sherlock stares at me.
"What?" I ask. He blinks.
"Nothing," he responds, turning back to the window. I look at him for a minute longer, before sighing and turning to John, who is reading the menu.
"Is it later yet?" I ask. "Because I'm still a bit confused as to why we're here." John puts his menu down.
"Sherlock found out that Jennifer Wilson's phone was not in her suitcase," he explains. "So he had me send a text to her number from my phone, giving the address for the building across the street. He seemed to be under the impression that the murderer has her phone. Whoever does have the phone called me back, which is when we started heading here, which is when we met up with you."
"No wonder you looked miffed when you came downstairs," I respond. I turn to Sherlock. "What was wrong with your phone?" He doesn't turn away from the window when he answers.
"Didn't wanna use mine," he says. "Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website."
"Website?" I ask, tilting my head. "You have a website?" Sherlock nods.
"It's called 'The Science of Deduction'," he replies. John cuts in.
"He says he can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," he says. I raise my eyebrows just as a waiter comes to take our orders.
We sit in silence while we wait, Sherlock still watching out the window. Time passes and the waiter comes back with our food. John and I tuck in, John with a pasta primavera and me with a lovely spaghetti and meatballs, with breadsticks on the side. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, hasn't ordered anything. I look at him pointedly, but he ignores me.
"At least have a breadstick," I insist. "Something, anything, to keep you from crashing and burning." Sherlock looks at me.
"Why do you care?" he asks. I shrug.
"Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm a decent human being, and I care about my friends," I respond.
"Friends?" he questions, his eyebrows rising to hide behind his dark curls. I shrug again.
"You gave me the address to a lovely flat that's going to get me away from my cheating ex-boyfriend," I answer. "I consider that a friend. Could be worse, you could be my enemy." John looks up from his food. I can tell he's amused by the banter.
"Speaking of enemies," he starts, "Mycroft got ahold of me today, wanted to know how you were doing." Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Who's Mycroft?" I ask, genuinely curious. Where've I heard that name before?
"Sherlock's arch-enemy," John answers, smirking.
"People don't have arch-enemies," I respond, turning to Sherlock. "In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. It doesn't happen."
"Doesn't it?" Sherlock asks. "Sounds a bit dull. What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?"
"Friends," I answer. "People they know; people they like; people they don't like. Family. Girlfriends, boyfriends, exes…"
"Yes, well, as I was saying," he says, "dull. He's my older brother."
"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" I ask. John snorts.
"Girlfriend?" Sherlock repeats. "No, not really my area."
"Hmmm," I hum, thinking. A funny thought strikes me, and I giggle. "So you and John, then?" John starts choking on his food.
"We are NOT a couple!" he shouts when he stops coughing. "Why does everyone think we are?" I shrug.
"I don't," I respond. "Just thought it'd be funny to see your reaction. Which it was." I grin widely, hearing Sherlock chuckle.
"I consider myself married to my work," Sherlock states. I groan.
"Oh, gods," I mutter, "you're one of those." He turns to me, one eyebrow raised, and I laugh. He turns back to the window.
"Look across the street," he says. "Taxi." Taxi? "Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out." I look to the taxi. There's a man in the back seat, looking through the side windows. I look ahead of him to see the cabbie. No way. Sherlock starts thinking out loud. "Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"
"That's him?" John asks.
"Don't stare," Sherlock snaps. John looks at him.
"You're staring," he responds, put out.
"We can't all stare," Sherlock says, getting to his feet. He grabs his coat and scarf and heads for the door, John following right on his heels. I watch from my seat as Sherlock nearly gets hit by a car and the taxi pulls away. Sherlock and John stand there for a second, before Sherlock leads them another way.
"Can I get you anything else, miss?" The waiter asks. I shake my head, standing up and grabbing my coat. "Oh, then have a good night, and come back soon." He sounds hopeful for that last part.
"Thanks," I respond, walking towards the door. I start walking toward Baker St., not even realizing I'm heading that way. I'm too busy thinking about the taxi, and I don't see the black car pull up beside me till a tall man in a suit steps out of it. I stop short as he pulls the rear door open.
"Miss Wilson," he says. "My employer would like a word with you. If you'd just get in the car, he really hates to wait."
I peer into the back of the car and see a woman in black with wavy brown hair texting on her mobile. I look back to the man holding the door open.
"I don't really have a choice, do I?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Thought not."
I get into the car.
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We ride in silence for the entire trip. We pull into an almost-empty warehouse. A man in a suit is standing in the middle of the vast space, leaning nonchalantly on what I can tell is not a cheap umbrella. He must be the employer. He watches as the car stops and I get out. The man gestures to a straight-back armless chair with his umbrella.
"Have a seat, Kat," he says. His voice has an aristocratic lilt to it. Royalty or high up in the Government. Going with Government. Royalty wouldn't have any reason to meet me in a place like this. I take the chair and turn it around so it's facing away from him, then sit in it backwards. I can tell this annoys him.
"Any reason you couldn't have called me?" I ask. "I've got a phone. Or you could have taken me to a café. I like cafes. They serve tea."
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes," he responds, "one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Must you sit in that way?" His voice turns a bit stern towards the end.
"Well, I don't wanna turn around," I answer, "if that's what you're asking." He looks at me curiously.
"You don't seem very afraid," he says. I shrug.
"You don't seem very frightening," I retort.
"How do you figure?" he asks.
"I can tell you're Government," I explain. "Judging by your suit and umbrella, I'd say very high up in the Government. And I can tell you don't like to do the dirty work yourself except when you absolutely have to. You sent people in a car to fetch me and bring me here. Speaking of here, you said this place was so you could avoid Sherlock's attention, and if you were to hurt me, he'd know about it, which would be counter-intuitive. So no, I'm not afraid of you."
He looks stunned, but gets over it quickly. Probably not used to ordinary people deducing him like that. Just Sherlock. That means he's extremely intelligent and has some connection to Sherlock. The man clears his throat.
"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" he asks sternly.
"I don't have one," I answer. "I barely know him. I met him yesterday."
"Hmm," he hums, "and since yesterday, you've moved into the flat above his and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" I snort. He's clearly trying to frazzle me. It's not going to work.
"Oh, tomorrow, actually," I gush happily. I can't help myself. He's asking, practically begging for it. "We're all set to get married and everything! I think it's a bit rushed, but we don't have a lot of time left. Not with the little one on the way." I pat my stomach, like I'm pregnant. His eyes widen. I snicker. "Gotcha! I can't believe you started to believe me. Who are you?" He clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable with my little act. Serves you right!
"An interested party," he answers.
"Interested in Sherlock?" I ask. "Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."
"You've met him," he replies. "How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." I frown, thinking about John.
"And what's that?" I ask.
"An enemy," he answers. I tilt my head.
"An enemy?" I ask.
"In his mind, certainly," he answers. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." I look around the warehouse.
"Well," I reply sarcastically, "thank the Goddess you're above all that." So this is Mycroft.
"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" he asks.
"I could be wrong—I'm usually not, but I could be this once—but I think that's none of your business," I respond.
"It could be," he answers ominously. I shake my head.
"It really couldn't." Mycroft takes a notebook from his inside pocket. He opens it and consults it as he speaks.
"If you do move into, um… two hundred and twenty-one Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way," he offers, closing the notebook and putting it away.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you're not a wealthy woman," he responds. I snort.
"Well, then," I say, "you clearly have not done all your research, because I certainly am wealthy. I just don't flaunt it like some people do." I look pointedly at his suit and umbrella. "If it's information you want, as long as it's not too personal, I'd be happy to oblige. And if you're insistent about paying me, wire it to Sherlock's account instead. If you're so worried about him." I've stunned him again. I get up out of the chair and turn towards the car. "Have a good night, Mycroft."
The woman from the car is now standing outside it. She's still looking down at her phone.
"I'm to take you home," she grumbles. "I feel like a cabbie." Suddenly, I hear Sherlock's words from earlier in my head: Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?
I pull my phone out of my pocket and fire a quick text to Sherlock.
The cabbie did it. –KW
"Address?" the woman asks. I look up at her.
"Two two one Baker Street," I answer, getting into the car.