A/N: Chapter 19, coming up. Again, I'm so sorry I haven't been updating as often. I had a production board meeting with one of my friends *cough* Bill *cough*, and cranked this one out in about four hours. It's short, but it's something, right?

Oh, and, if you're a fan of Doctor Who and original characters, check out Lady Artimes Blaine's story, Phoenix Saga: Origin. It's really good, and I highly recommend it.

Some notes on reviews:

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shika93: Thank you for your five reviews!

Chapter 19:

Some Explanations

After heading to St. Bart's hospital, the three of us commandeer one of the labs. Sherlock examines the shoes while John and I wait, and I try to ignore the dull ache in my head. Weird that I keep getting headaches at Bart's, I think. Sherlock sits across from me at one of the tables, taking samples of mud from the shoes and placing them in a scanner.

"So, who d'you suppose it was?" John asks, pacing up and down the aisle between tables. Sherlock's phone trills, alerting him that he has a text. Sherlock doesn't react.

"Hmm?" he hums absently, looking into a microscope.

"The woman on the phone," John responds. "The crying woman."

"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there," Sherlock answers. John lets out a sigh of exasperation. The ache in my head turns into a throbbing.

"For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads," John retorts.

"You're not going to be much use to her," Sherlock replies without missing a beat. He glances at the scanner as it continues throwing up negative results, then looks back into the microscope.

"Are-are they trying to trace it, trace the call?" John asks. I shake my head.

"The bomber's too smart for that," I answer. Sherlock's phone trills again, signifying he has another text.

"Pass me my phone," Sherlock instructs John flatly. John looks around the room while I chuckle softly.

"Where is it?" John asks.

"Jacket," I respond turning my head to look at him. He straightens up slowly, his body going rigid in disbelief. His eyes say "I am going to kill him" as he looks at me. He turns to his right, marches stiffly around the table, slams one hand onto Sherlock's shoulder and roughly pulls Sherlock's jacket open with the other hand as he starts to rummage in the inside pocket.

"Careful," Sherlock orders angrily. John looks up at me, trying to contain his anger, pulls the phone out and looks at it.

"Text from your brother," John states.

"Delete it," Sherlock responds.

"Delete it?" John repeats, confused.

"Missile plans are out of the country now," Sherlock answers. "Nothing we can do about it." John looks at the phone again, reading the message.

"Well," he says, "Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important." Sherlock raises his head.

"Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?" he asks in exasperation.

"His what?" John asks, sighing tiredly.

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk," Sherlock answers.

"Quite the opposite of you, Sherlock," I interject, distracting myself from my ever-growing headache. "Which drives your mother insane, by the way." John looks at me curiously while Sherlock glares.

"Look," Sherlock begins, changing the subject back to the previous topic. "Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story." I frown. I don't agree. If it were simply that, Mycroft wouldn't have asked Sherlock to take the case. "The only mystery is this: Why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" He looks back into the microscope again. John switches the phone off.

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die," John requests.

"What for?" Sherlock asks, looking up at John again. "This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?" John looks away in disbelief. Sherlock looks back into the microscope again.

The pounding in my head is becoming unbearable. I groan softly, laying my forehead on the table.

"Kat, are you alright?" John asks, concerned. I lift my head slightly, seeing that both John and Sherlock are watching me. "You-you're awfully pale." I smile, but I think it comes out as a grimace.

"Headache," I respond, laying my head back down on the table, the cool surface helping. A second later, the computer beeps, announcing that it's search is complete.

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaims delightedly. The lab door opens.

"Any luck?" I hear Molly ask as she walks over to Sherlock.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock answers in triumph. I raise my head and look at Molly just as the door opens again. I look to the door and see a man in his thirties, wearing slacks and a T-shirt. He looks familiar, but I don't place him as Jim-Molly's friend from I.T.-until I notice the clockwork pendant atop his shirt. Molly glances over at me, having to do a double take. I must be really pale.

"Oh, sorry," Jim stutters. "I didn't..."

"Jim! Hi!" Molly exclaims, looking at him. Jim moves to leave the room but Molly stops him. "Come in! Come in!" Sherlock looks over at her briefly, and I can see the instant deduction, then looks again to the microscope. Molly starts making introductions as Jim closes the door and walks over to her. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah," Jim responds. John turns toward them, and Molly looks at him blankly.

"And, uh... sorry," Molly apologizes.

"John Watson. Hi," John replies, and a light of recognition flares in Molly's eyes.

"Oh, so you're John!" She exclaims. Jim finally turns to look at John. I chuckle, and Jim and Molly turn to me. "And you remember Kat, right?" Jim nods, smiling.

"'Lo, Kat," he greets.

"'Lo, Jim," I respond, grinning. Jim turns back to look at Sherlock, gazing admiringly.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes," he says. "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" He walks closer to Sherlock, forcing John to step out of his way.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs," Molly explains. "That's how we met. Office romance."

"What?!" I ask in mock-anger, making all four of them look at me. "Since when, and why haven't I heard about it?" I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, grinning to show them I'm only teasing, and Molly relaxes. The pounding in my head is still there, still beating my head like a drum.

"Well, it happened just after you rescued me," Molly answers. My smile falters slightly, and I glance at Sherlock, catching him watching me. He looks me in the eye for a fraction of a second before glancing briefly at Jim, and returning to his microscope.

"Gay," Sherlock states quietly. Molly turns to him sharply.

"Sorry, what?" She asks. Sherlock raises his head as he realizes what he's just done. I shake my head at him.

"Nothing," he responds. He turns around and smiles falsely at Jim. "Um, hey."

"Hey," Jim replies, lowering his hand to lean on the table. He misses the table and instead knocks a metal dish off the edge, and scrambles to pick it up, giggling nervously. "Sorry! Sorry!" John turns away, putting a hand to his face, while Sherlock looks irritated. I frown, seeing what Jim's doing. Jim puts the dish back on the table and scratches his arm as he wanders back towards Molly. "Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at The Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

"Yeah!" Molly answers excitedly. Jim stops beside her, putting a hand on her back, and looks back towards Sherlock.

"Bye," Jim says.

"Bye," Molly repeats softly.

"It was nice to meet you," Jim says, gazing wistfully at Sherlock, who does not respond, still looking into the microscope. John glances up at him before breaking the silence.

"You, too."

Jim blinks at him, looking awkward, then turns and leaves the room. Molly waits until the door closes, then turns to Sherlock.

"What d'you mean, gay?" She asks. "We're together." Sherlock looks up at her.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly," he responds. "You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half," Molly argues.

"Nuh, three," Sherlock reiterates.

"Sherlock..." John starts before Molly interrupts him.

"He's not gay," she states. "Why d'you have to spoil...? He's not." Sherlock snorts.

"With that level of personal grooming?" He asks.

"Because he puts product in his hair?" John asks in disbelief. "I put product in my hair."

"You wash your hair," Sherlock says in rebuttal. "There's a difference." Sherlock begins explaining his deductions about Jim as I put my head down again, still trying to ignore my head.

"Kat?" Molly asks sharply, making me lift my head.

"Sorry, what?" I ask, and Molly frowns. "I wasn't really paying attention, what with this pounding in my head." Sherlock raises his eyebrows at me while John looks at me in concern. Molly's eyes soften a bit.

"I was asking if you thought Jim was gay," she answers, quieter this time. I stare at her before sighing.

"Yeah," I say, nodding. "I figured he was when I first met him. I didn't tell you 'cause I thought you knew." Molly frowns at me and I shrug my shoulders. "You said it wasn't serious." Molly's frown deepens.

"And you didn't see this coming?" She asks, annoyed. I shake my head, a bit relieved to find my headache lessening.

"Psychics can't see everything."

Molly stares at me for a moment before nodding and leaving the room.

"That went well," John mutters sarcastically.

"You think?" Sherlock asks. I shake my head. Sherlock glances between us before moving one of the shoes on the table closer to John. "Go on, then." John hums in confusion. "You know what I do. Off you go." He sits back and folds his arms, expectantly. John splutters incoherently and looks at his watch.

"No," John says, refusing.

"Go on," Sherlock repeats. "An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me."

"Yeah, right," John replies. Sherlock stares at him before turning to look at me. I smile, nodding.

"I'll do it," I state, and John looks at me, about to protest. I hold up a hand to stop him. "My headache's about gone now, and examining the shoe will probably help distract me from the last of it." I hold my hand out for one of the shoes, and Sherlock hands it to me. I take it, turning it in my hands. "Pair of trainers, in good condition." I look inside the shoe as Sherlock picks up his phone, looking something up. "But not new, because the soles are well-worn, so the owner had them for a while." I turn the shoe so I can look at the design. "Very eighties." Sherlock glances up at me. "I'd say one of those retro designs, but the stiffness of the canvas says they haven't been worn in quite some time, so probably from the eighties and kept well-preserved." Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise. John looks just as surprised, but as he is more expressive than Sherlock, it comes across more clearly.

"You're getting better," he compliments, and I look up at him and smile. "What else?"

"Well," I continue, looking at the shoe again. "They're quite big, which would mean they belonged to a man." I fold the tongue of the shoe back. "But there are traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don't usually write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."

"Excellent," Sherlock murmurs proudly. "What else?" I look more closely at the shoe.

"Hmm," I hum, thinking. "The owner loved these. Probably limited edition. He scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored." I look at the eyelets of the shoe, noting the small tears in the fabric. "Changed the laces three... no, four times." John looks even more surprised. "Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema." I flip the shoes over and look at the bottoms. "Well-worn, more so on the inside, meaning the owner had weak arches. Mud caked on the soles. I'm guessing those samples you took earlier are going to tell you where the shoes have been." I glance up at Sherlock. "Pollen, or something." Sherlock nods. "And that's all I've got, just from the shoes." I hand the shoe back to Sherlock, who places it with the other. "Did I miss anything?"

"No, not really," Sherlock answers. "You really are getting better." I smile again. Sherlock gestures to the shoes. "British-made, twenty years old. Limited edition, like you said. Two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine." He holds up his phone for John and I to see. On the screen is a picture of the same shoes. "Kept well-preserved. And yes, I was testing for the pollen in the mud, so extra points for that. Analysis shows the mud is from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."

"You got that from pollen?" John asks. I grin.

"Software designer by his tie and airline pilot by his left thumb, John," I respond. John chuckles, shaking his head.

"Should have known."

"So," Sherlock interjects, bringing us back on track. "the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?" John asks.

"Something bad," Sherlock and I say simultaneously, glancing at each other. Sherlock waves his hand, allowing me to continue, giving him more time to think. "He loved these shoes, remember? He'd never leave them filthy, wouldn't let them go unless he had to." John nods in understanding.

"So," Sherlock begins. "A child with big feet gets..." He trails off, staring ahead of himself. "Oh."

"What?" John asks, the same time I say "Sherlock?"

"Carl Powers," Sherlock responds softly.

"Sorry, who?"

"Carl Powers, John," Sherlock repeats, still staring at nothing. John looks at me. I shrug my shoulders.

"It's where he began."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Sitting in the back of a taxi, Sherlock again scrolls through his phone while explaining Carl Powers to John. I watch the city pass by through the window.

"Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid-champion swimmer-came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident," Sherlock states, holding his phone up to show John the front page of a newspaper. "You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?"

"But you remember," John replies. I see him glancing at me from the corner of my eye. He's wondering why I'm not paying as much attention.

"Yes," Sherlock responds. John turns back towards Sherlock.

"Something fishy about it?"

"Nobody thought so. Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers," explains Sherlock. I turn from the window and watch the two of them.

"Started young, didn't you?" John asks rhetorically.

"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out, it was too late," Sherlock continues, ignoring John. "But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head."

"What?" John asks.

"His shoes," Sherlock answer.

"What about them?"

"They weren't there. I made a fuss," Sherlock responds. I frown, and John glances at me. "I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes..." He trails off, leaning down to pick up the bag containing the shoes. "Until now."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"Care to explain why you weren't so interested in Carl Powers?" John asks, pacing in front of the kitchen of 221B, where one Sherlock Holmes shut himself away. I glance up from my laptop, catching John's unamused look, and sigh. I close the computer and place it on the table next to me before turning in my armchair to face him.

"It's not that I'm not interested," I explain. "It's just that I've heard it before." John looks surprised at that.

"When?" he asks. I sigh again.

"Do you remember, after the incident with the cabbie and the pills, when we ran into Mycroft?" I ask. John nods, crossing his arms. "Remember what he said about their petty feud?"

"Yeah, he said it started with a girl," John responds. A light of sudden understanding flashes in his eyes. "You were the girl, weren't you." I nod.

"Yeah. It was just after Carl Powers had died. I was in the hospital for... a thing." John looks at me in concern, but I continue. "The Holmes family was in America, celebrating Mycroft's top marks at school, and Mycroft had gotten hurt. We ended up being in the same hospital. Sherlock got bored, decided to explore, and he came to my room. He could tell something bad had happened to me." I take in a deep breath, ignoring John's growing concern. "And, being the curious sort that he was, he was determined to find out what. Somehow, I had steered the conversation away from why I was in the hospital, and we got to talking about Carl Powers. Sherlock was-not upset, but... dismayed? Yeah, dismayed-over the fact that the police wouldn't take him seriously. I asked him if, disregarding that, did he like figuring things out. Did he like being a detective. And he said yes, he did. So, I told him that, if he liked it so much, he should continue. The only reason the police wouldn't listen to him was, in my opinion, because he was still a kid. I pointed out that he would be an adult one day, and then they would take him seriously." John nods.

"Does Sherlock know you're..."

"Yeah, he does. Mycroft knows as well, which, I think, is why he's been so short with me lately." John nods again, frowning.

"Yeah, I did notice that." I pull my laptop back onto my lap. "So, did he find out what you were there for?" I chuckle.

"He didn't find out until the case with the Chinese smugglers." John laughs. "It's funny, though. If it hadn't been for that, dare I say, fateful meeting, none of us would be here right now." John frowns. "Sherlock would probably be in the Government with his brother, which means you would never have met him." John nods, looking down at the floor. "And I would probably be dead." John looks up at me sharply. I turn to the computer on my lap, opening it.

"What?! Why?!"

"Because of what had happened to me. Survivor's guilt would probably have eaten away at me, and I probably would have committed suicide." John gasps. "Sherlock saved my life. He helped me see that what happened wasn't my fault, and he suggested I also become a detective, so I could help 'make the bad guys pay'."

Silence fills the air as John processes everything I've said. John continues pacing. I try to find as much information on Carl Powers as I can, even going through old classmates. A feeling passes over me, the feeling that usually comes with my intuition.

"John," I say. John looks up at me. "Go tell Sherlock you want to help. I think he'll have something for you." John nods, turning to the kitchen doors.