A/N: Finally, a new chapter. It's also my longest chapter to date, with 5,344 words. That's a lot. Sorry it took so long. I have no excuses. Or rather, a lot of excuses, but not really.
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Chapter Twenty:
Two Faced
"Well? How do I look?" John asks from the doorway. I look up from my laptop where I'm playing Minesweeper to see him in a tie and jacket, looking put-out.
"Uncomfortable," I respond, grinning. John grimaces and looks down at his clothes.
"Are you sure you can't do this?" he begs. I laugh.
"Sorry, John," I answer. "But you know I'm not Mycroft's favorite person right now." John nods, still frowning. "Now, go! No need to keep His Majesty waiting." I wave my arms at him as if to shoo him away. He laughs and walks out the door. I check my watch. Four and a half hours to go, I think. I turn back to my game, thinking about the case as I play.
"Did John leave?" Sherlock asks from the kitchen. I look up again and see him leaning over a microscope.
"Yeah, just left," I respond. I look back at my computer, before sighing and closing it. "I'm headed upstairs for a bite to eat, Sherlock. I'll be back in a moment." I stand up, walk to the door and up the stairs, and unlock the door to my flat. Heading to the kitchen, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see it's a text from Molly.
Jim hasn't shown up. I think Sherlock scared him off. Are you busy tonight? –MH
I sigh, shaking my head.
I'm sorry, Molls. Just give Jim some space. He's an okay guy, he probably feels bad for standing you up. And yeah, actually. Big case right now. I'll hit you up when we're done. We'll make a day of it. –KW
I close my phone and place it on the counter. I pull some tortillas out of the cupboard, and some sliced chicken, lettuce, shredded parmesan, and Caesar dressing from the fridge, and start making chicken Caesar pinwheels. I pull three plates and a tall glass out of another cupboard and arrange the pinwheels, making sure one plate has slightly less than the others, before grabbing some lemonade out of the fridge and pouring it. Nodding in satisfaction, I put the extras ingredients away and clean the countertops off. I cover one of the plates with some foil, and, finding a tray in one of the bottom cabinets, I arrange my plates and my glass. After grabbing my phone, make my way back downstairs. Just before reaching the landing, I see Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs.
"Oh, hey, Mrs. Hudson," I greet with a smile, walking down the last few steps onto the landing.
"Oh, hello, dear," Mrs. Hudson responds, glancing at my tray. I offer her a pinwheel, but she declines. "I just had supper, thanks. Are some of those for Sherlock?"
"Yeah," I answer with a nod. "It's about the only way we can get him to eat while he's on a case." Mrs. Hudson looks surprised.
"I didn't think that was possible," she says. I nod, and lean towards her.
"John and I have figured out that if we make him small things to eat, and set them by him, he usually doesn't even notice that he's eating them," I whisper conspiratorially. She grins.
"Well, don't let me stop you," she replies. "I was thinking of having some tea later, would you like some?"
"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you are a dream," I respond with a smile. "A lady after my own heart!" Mrs. Hudson laughs, shaking her head, before heading back down the stairs. She stops halfway down and turns around.
"Oh, the day you joined our little family was a beautiful day indeed," she calls. A warm feeling settles in my chest at her words. "I'll bring up the tea later. If Sherlock drags you out, be a dear, and–"
"I'll let you know," I interrupt, shooting her a cheeky grin. "Can't have you walking up and down all these stairs." She laughs again and heads down said stairs. I turn into Sherlock's flat and make my way quietly into the kitchen. I place my tray on one of the only clean counters, take the covered plate and stick it in the fridge. I grab the second plate, the one that has the least, and place it on the table by Sherlock's elbow, before grabbing my tray and heading back into the living room. "Food's on your left, Sherlock," I call softly as I sit down. Sherlock looks up from his microscope and glances down at the plate. He looks at me, eyes narrowed, before shrugging and popping one of the pinwheels in his mouth, turning back to the microscope.
Some time passes while we both eat. When I finish my food, I stand up and grab my tray again. I glance into the kitchen towards Sherlock, unsurprised to see his plate is empty. I chuckle and head into the kitchen and grab his plate as well. I then take my stuff back up stairs and place the dirty dishes in the sink, running some water to wash them. Finished with that, I walk downstairs. Heading back into Sherlock's flat, I walk into the kitchen and glance at the table. Finding one of Sherlock's files, I pick it up and, ignoring Sherlock's look, sit sideways in my chair, legs thrown over the armrest. I pull my laptop in front of me and start looking through the file. It's a list of students who went to school with Carl Powers at the time of his murder. Time passes again, Sherlock is still looking through the microscope, and I'm going through the students from the file and trying to place where they are now. At some point I hear Sherlock move in the kitchen. I glance up to see him moving from the main table to the side table, taking the microscope with him.
I look back down again, confused by what I'm seeing. One of the students, one Richard Brook, looks vaguely familiar. I start pulling up whatever information I can on him, finding employment records at theatres and one television station. I find a more recent picture, and realize why he looks familiar. Jim, I think. I start looking for more information when Mrs. Hudson comes through the door with a tray. I quickly stand up to help her, glancing at the clock. Three hours to go. It's become dark outside. Mrs. Hudson places the mugs on the kitchen table before heading back out. I thank her just as John comes in the door, looking distinctly flustered. I chuckle softly before pointing to the fridge, heading back to my chair. John joins me a moment later with his plate in hand and nods to me in thanks. I nod back. I go back to all the information and find that a few years ago, Richard Brook disappeared from the system. Completely vanished. Something about threats to his life. Hmm, coincidence? I think not. I'm just about to let Sherlock know what I've found when he looks up.
"Poison," he mutters. I move my laptop to the side table.
"What?" John asks through a mouthful of food. Sherlock slams his hands down on the table.
"Clostridium botulinum!" He exclaims. He looks from John to me.
"Botox. Carl Powers was killed by botox," I respond incredulously before seriously considering it, getting out of my chair.
"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" Sherlock replies.
"Wait, are you saying he was murdered?" John asks. Sherlock stands up and walks over towards the sink. He gestures to the shoelaces hanging above it.
"Remember the shoelaces?" he prompts. John and I both nod. I lean against the door frame. "The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles, and he drowns." I look down sadly as Sherlock walks to his computer. What a way to go, I think.
"What?! How-how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?" John asks, flabbergasted as Sherlock begins to type.
"It's virtually undetectable," I answer softly. "And no one would have looked for it, anyway."
"But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet," Sherlock continues, still typing. He adds a final touch before straightening up again. "That's why they had to go."
"So how do we let the bomber know..." John says.
"Get his attention..." Sherlock adds, and John hums.
"Stop the clock," I finish, glancing at the clock in the living room.
"The killer kept the shoes all these years," John says.
"Yes," Sherlock responds. He looks from me to John. "Meaning?"
"He's our bomber," John and I answer simultaneously. Then, with a timing that can only be done on a television show, the pink phone rings. Sherlock hurries over to the side table and switches the phone on, setting it to speaker. I pull my phone out and pull up Lestrade's work number.
"Well done, you," the woman says, her voice thick with sobs. "Come and get me." I hit dial.
"Where are you?" Sherlock asks, loud and clear. "Tell us where you are."
"Lestrade speak–" Lestrade's voice says through the speaker.
"Hey, it's Kat," I interrupt, moving into the living room. John follows behind me, stopping in the doorway. "Sherlock solved the case. The bomber's letting the woman go. We're justing getting the where now." Sherlock calls something out to John, who rushes over to me. I hear Lestrade shouting to someone in the background, telling them to get ready to go.
"Where?"
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"She lives in Cornwall," Lestrade explains, sitting at his desk. Sherlock stands at the window, looking into the main floor. His hands are raised in front of his mouth, his fingers tapping together. John sits opposite Lestrade at his desk. I sit off to the side, yawning, coffee in hand. "Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house." I take a sip, holding back a shudder. Lestrade looks up at Sherlock, who is walking towards the desk. "Told her to phone you. She had to read out from this pager." He puts the pager onto the desk in front of John, who picks it up to look at it.
"And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would have set her off," Sherlock finishes.
"Or if you hadn't solved the case," John adds.
"Oh. Elegant," Sherlock says softly, walking back to the window. John raises his head and sighs in exasperation. I shake my head with a small smile.
"'Elegant'?" John asks, looking at me. I shrug my shoulders.
"But what was the point?" Lestrade asks. "Why would anyone do this?"
"Some people are extremely dangerous when they get bored," I respond, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. He grins back at me, completely unashamed.
"Cheers!" he projects at me, and I roll my eyes.
Just then, the pink phone beeps a message alert. Out of the corner of my eye, I see John turn towards Sherlock, who has activated the phone.
"You have one new message," the voice alert says. As Sherlock walks towards Lestrade's desk, the phone sounds three short pips and one long one.
"Four pips," John states.
"First test passed, it would seem," Sherlock continues. "Here's the second." He turns the phone around to show the rest of us a picture. It's a close-up of a car with it's driver's door open and the number plate clearly visible. John and Lestrade get up to take a closer look. Outside in the main office, a phone rings. I take another sip of coffee. "It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?"
"I'll see if it's been reported," Lestrade offers. As he picks up his desk phone, Donovan comes to the office holding another phone.
"Fre–" she starts, before catching my glare and stopping. "I mean, Sherlock. It's for you."
Sherlock glances at me with an eyebrow raised before walking over to the door and taking the phone from her. John sits down again, and Sherlock walks out into the general office, raising the phone to his ear. I down the last of my coffee and toss the paper cup into the trash bin across the room. John looks impressed, but Lestrade just glances at me from his desk. I smile winningly at him, and he rolls his eyes. I turn to John, who is looking out at Sherlock, sitting taller than before. I haul myself out of my chair and step out of the office. I lean against the glass and cross my arms.
"And you've stolen another voice, I presume," Sherlock says into the phone, glancing up at me. I frown and tilt my head, listening to one side of a conversation, if it can be called that. "Who are you? What's that noise?" I hear the voice on the other end: Young, male. Terrified. I close my eyes. Piccadilly Circus. The call ends. I open my eyes again to see Sherlock lower the phone.
"How long?" I ask.
"Eight hours," he answers.
"Okay…. Great," Lestrade says, his voice carrying from the office. He hangs up the phone and heads towards Sherlock and I, John close behind. "We've found it."
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Sherlock, John and I follow Lestrade into the large, open space where the car was found. There are forensic officers working on the car itself as Sherlock and I head straight for it, John and Donovan following along behind us.
"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford," Lestrade explains, consulting some notes. "Banker of some kind; city boy. Paid in cash." Sherlock looks closely at a woman talking with a female officer as we pass. "Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived." As Sherlock and Lestrade reach the passenger door of the car, Donovan turns to John. I step around the car to the driver's side.
"You're still hanging around him," she says. I glance over at her and narrow my eyes, making a mental note to speak to Lestrade about Donovan after this case is over.
"Yeah, well…."
"Opposites attract, I suppose."
"No, we're not…."
"I didn't mean it like that," Donovan interrupts shortly, before taking a deep breath. "You should get yourself a hobby–stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer." She steps away from John to stand beside Lestrade.
Sherlock leans into the car to look at the large amount of blood smeared over the island between the two front seats. He opens the glove box. I take a closer look at the blood itself. Something doesn't sit right with me.
"Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood," Lestrade calls from behind Sherlock. "The DNA checks out." Sherlock finds a business card in the glove box and takes it out. Closing the lid, he straightens up. My eyes widen as I realize what it is about the blood that's bothering me. I check around the rest of the car's interior.
"No body," Sherlock says. It's not a question. I straighten up and glance down at the door frame, then at the ground around the door. Shaking my head, I walk around to the other side. Sherlock glances at me.
"Not yet," Donovan replies. I look down at the door frame on the passenger side, then down at the ground again. I look up at Sherlock and tilt my head. He glances down, then turns to Lestrade.
"Get a sample sent to the lab," he orders.
"Please and thank you," I add. Lestrade smiles and nods, and Sherlock and I walk away. I pull John aside while Sherlock heads over to the woman we saw earlier.
"You're not going with him?" John asks. I shake my head.
"Nah, Sherlock's got this," I answer, smiling slightly. I can hear Sherlock speaking with the-now-identified Mrs. Monkford. I look over to the car again and frown. "Something's not right about this case, though." I see John nod in my periphery. "And I'm not just talking about Ian Monkford's disappearance, either. This whole thing gives me a bad vibe." I look back at John to see him frowning.
"No, it wasn't," Mrs. Monkford exclaims, and John and I both turn towards the conversation to see Sherlock drop his fake persona.
"Wasn't it? Interesting," he responds. He turns and walks away, and John and I turn to follow. From behind, Mrs. Monkford demands to know who she was talking to.
"Why did you lie to her?" John asks, put out. Sherlock takes off his gloves to wipe the tears from his eyes.
"People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you," Sherlock responds. "Past tense, did you notice?" I nod.
"Sorry, what?" John says.
"He referred to her husband in the past tense," I answer, and John nods. "She joined in. A bit prematurely, if you ask me. They've only just found the car."
"You think she murdered her husband?"
"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make," Sherlock states.
"I see," John says. "No, I don't. What am I seeing?"
"Fishing! Try fishing!" Donovan calls out to John as we walk past.
"Well, in a moment here, you're going to see the verbal equivalent to assault and battery," I respond, glaring at Donovan over my shoulder. John turns around and gives her an exasperated nod before catching up to us again. Sherlock looks back at Donovan before glancing at me, amused.
"Where now?" John asks, no doubt hoping to avoid a confrontation.
"Janus Cars," Sherlock answers, handing the business card to John. "Just found this in the glove compartment."
We reach the main road, John hands the card back to Sherlock, and Sherlock calls for a taxi. He gives the driver the address and we all pile into the car. It's silent for a few minutes before John speaks.
"So, uh, why do you get so angry when Donovan says… those things?" he finishes lamely, glancing at Sherlock. I smile sadly and look out the window.
"Aside from the fact that she's disrespecting my friend?" I ask rhetorically, turning to look John in the eye. "I've been called many names in my life. Freak, weirdo, witch–although technically speaking that last one is true. I've heard many things said about me, both behind my back and to my face." I close my eyes and tilt my head, reliving some of the worst in my head. I open my eyes again to see concern and respect in John's eyes. "As such, I take personal offense to people treating others as something less than human simply because they're different, and whenever I have the opportunity to call these people out on their prejudice, I take it."
"Witch, huh?" Sherlock asks, grinning to break the tension.
"I have an altar in my closet for spells and such," I laugh. "It's only for good things, I promise! And if Sergeant Sally Donovan suddenly finds herself with a run of bad luck, I swear, it wasn't me!" Sherlock and John both laugh at that, and I smile, thinking I've successfully distracted Sherlock from the case for a moment.
"So, what was it you noticed about the car?" he asks. Maybe not.
"Three things, actually. One," I answer, leaning forward slightly and holding up a finger. "There is not nearly enough blood in that car to prove Monkford is dead."
"Well, the body was obviously moved, so there should be more blood somewhere else, yeah?" John interrupts. I smile at him.
"That would be correct, if not for the second thing. Two." I hold up a second finger. "The blood was not smeared anywhere in that car. Not on the seats, not in the door frame. Which, if Monkford had bled that much to create a puddle, there would have been drips at the least. This was not the case. It was a puddle between the seats. If Monkford's body had been pulled out of the car to be disposed of, there would have been clears signs indicating such an act. Which also brings me to my next point. Three." I add one more finger. "There is no blood splatter. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue. You could argue that Monkford was killed somewhere else. However, if you add this fact to the already lacking amount of smears and drips, it simply doesn't make sense that Monkford is dead. There is only one possible explanation of all the available facts." I lean back in my seat again and cross my arms. John is now leaning forward slightly, curiosity and anticipation written on his face. "That blood was placed in that car on purpose."
"What?" John asks, shocked. "But, why?"
"I don't know. I can guess, but I have no real evidence. Yet."
Silence falls in the taxi again as we make our way to our next stop. Minutes pass before the three of us are climbing out and heading into Janus Cars. Sherlock asks a man about speaking to the owner, and we're lead to an office towards the back of the building. We introduce ourselves to a Mr. Ewert, who shakes our hands and gestures to some chairs. John and I take a seat, while Sherlock stands to the side of the desk and looks into the forecourt. John pulls out a notebook.
"Can't see how I can help you three," Mr. Ewert says.
"Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday," John prompts.
"Yeah, lovely motor," Ewert responds. "Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself!" Sherlock steps around to the other side of the desk so he's standing beside Ewert, and points into the forecourt.
"Is that one?" he asks. Ewert turns his head to look, and Sherlock immediately looks closely at the side of Ewert's neck.
"Those are Jaguars, Sherlock," I respond, not looking. "Honestly, how we get along is beyond me." Ewert looks back at me, surprised.
"A car girl?" he asks. I shrug my shoulders.
"Where I come from, it's practically a crime to be clueless about cars," I reply. "I grew up about an hour's drive from Motor City, USA. Though, personally, I prefer muscle cars, from the late '60's or early '70's."
"Ah, a fan of the classics, then," Ewert says. He turns back to look at Sherlock, who straightens and smiles at John and I.
"But, er, surely you can afford one–a Mazda, I mean?" Sherlock asks, trying to get back on focus.
"Yeah, it's a fair point," Ewert answers. "But you know how it is: It's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the liquorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?" He starts scratching near the top of his left arm. Sherlock looks for a moment, then turns away and heads around the room to the other side of the desk again.
"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John asks. Ewert shakes his head.
"No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired on of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod." Sherlock reaches the other side of the desk and stops.
"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?" he asks.
"Eh?" Ewert responds, confused.
"You've been away, haven't you?"
"Oh, the-the…." Ewert gestures to his tanned face. "No, it's, er, sunbeds, I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though–bit of sun." He turns to look at John and I, and we both nod.
"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asks immediately after.
"What?"
"Well, I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change," Sherlock responds. He offers Ewert a bank note. "I'm gasping."
"Um, well…" Ewert says. He reaches into his trouser pocket and takes out his wallet. John looks at me, confused, and I shake my head. "Hmm." Ewert opens the wallet and looks inside. "No, sorry."
"Oh, well. Thank you for your time, Mr. Ewert," Sherlock replies, turning towards the door. "You've been very helpful. Kat, John." John and I stand and leave the office, following closely behind Sherlock.
"I-I've got change if you still want to, uh…" John offers. Sherlock pats his upper left arm.
"Nicotine patches, remember? I'm doing well," Sherlock answers.
"So what was that all about?"
"I needed to look inside his wallet."
"Why?"
"Because," I explain. "Mr. Ewert is a liar."
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I rest my head on my crossed arms, leaning over the table in front of me. Sherlock is across the room, testing samples of Monkford's blood. John, Sherlock, and I, had headed to Bart's after leaving Janus Cars. John had split off from us to head to the surgery, going to check on Sarah. I think. I'm not entirely sure. I turn my head to glance at the clock on the wall. Four hours to go. I turn my head again, trying to find a connection to all the information. There is a nagging in the back of my mind, something I'm forgetting. Something very important to this case. I sigh and burrow my head further into my arms, hearing a slight fizz coming from Sherlock's direction. I lift my head slightly to look at Sherlock when I hear the ring of the pink phone. Sherlock picks the phone up and answers it.
"Hello?" I hear the voice of the young man come through, though I can't make out the words. "Why would you be giving me a clue?" At this, I sit up fully, tilting my head, and Sherlock looks over at me. He glances out of the corner of his eye at the phone. "Then talk to me in your own voice." I hear the line go dead. Sherlock lowers the phone and looks thoughtfully in my direction.
"Janus Cars," he murmurs, turning slightly.
"What?" I ask.
"He said the clue was in the name. Janus Cars."
"The god with two faces," I explain. Sherlock glances at me. "Roman mythology. Janus was the god of beginnings, gates, transitions, time, duality, and endings. Traditionally, he is depicted with two faces. Some say that it's from this depiction that the two masks of drama originate from, but most agree that they actually come from two Greek muses, Thalia, the muse of comedy, and Melpomene, the muse of tragedy."
"Ah," Sherlock responds. "And how do you know so much about it?"
"Same way I know that the Earth goes 'round the sun, Sherlock," I answered, smirking. "I learned about it in school. Being psychic gave me an interest in magic and mythology. Greek and Roman have always been my favorite."
He looks down at the table, picks up a petri dish with fizzing blood in it, and smiles.
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Sherlock, John and I walk into the police car pound and head over to Monkford's car to find Lestrade waiting for us.
"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asks without preamble.
"How much? About a pint," Lestrade answers, thinking.
"Not 'about'. Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake," Sherlock replies.
"Losing a pint of blood isn't going to kill anyone, either," I interrupt. "And there's no smearing or drips, so Monkford wasn't moved while he was 'bleeding'." Lestrade looks into the car through the open door, and hums in thought.
"The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen," Sherlock continues.
"Frozen?" Lestrade asks, looking up in shock.
"There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats."
"Who did?" John asks.
"Janus Cars," Sherlock and I answer together. I gesture to Sherlock for him to continue. "The clue's in the name."
"The god with two faces," John responds.
"Exactly.
"Mmm, so Sherlock knows mythology, but not astronomy?" John asks rhetorically. I chuckle. Sherlock pretends to ignore the two of us and turns to Lestrade.
"They provide a very special service," Sherlock explains. "If you've got any kind of a problem–money troubles, bad marriage, whatever–Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble–financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat…." Sherlock trails off, letting John and Lestrade make their own conclusions.
"So where is he?" John asks after a moment. Sherlock closes the car door.
"Colombia."
"Colombia?!" Lestrade repeats, surprised.
"Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet," Sherlock explains. "Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No-one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."
"His arm?" Lestrade asks.
"He kept scratching it," I respond. "It was obviously irritating him. And bleeding, but that might have possibly been due to the scratching."
"Why?" Sherlock continues. "Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: He'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."
"M-Mrs. Monkford?" John says, shocked.
"Oh, yes. She's in on it, too," Sherlock replies. Lestrade lowers his head, a look of amazement on his face. "Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best." Sherlock turns to John and I. "We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case has been solved." He turns and walks away, John and I following close behind. Sherlock clenches his fists triumphantly at his side. "I am on fire!"
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John and Sherlock sit at the living room table of 221B, while I sit in my chair. The three of us are all wearing our coats. Something about not being able to use the heating or the gas because of the "gas leak", and because the windows are still broken and boarded up. I sit with my phone in my hand, Lestrade quietly on the other end. I hear the keys of Sherlock's laptop clacking as he types a new message onto his website. A few seconds after the clacking stops, the pink phone starts to ring. Sherlock answers and puts it on speaker.
"He says you can come fetch me," the young man's voice says. "Help. Help me, please."
"Where are you?" Sherlock asks.
"Piccadilly Circus," the voice answers. I repeat the answer to Lestrade, who starts calling out to the other officers with him. I hang up, sit up and gesture to Sherlock to hand me the pink phone.
"Easy, now. Deep breaths," I say as soothingly as possible, taking the phone off speaker and holding it to my ear. I hear the young man take a shaky breath, and I lean back into my chair. "There we go. The police are on their way right now. Deep breaths, that's it. Nice and calm. What's your name?"
"Um, Ethan. Ethan Rayne," Ethan replies. I hear him take another shaky breath, trying to stay calm.
"Nice to meet you, Ethan Rayne," I respond. I hear a snort on the other end. "Well, nice to meet you under the circumstances. Have you got a girlfriend?"
"Wha-? Um, no, actually." I hear a pause on the other end. "Are you trying to distract me?"
"That depends: Is it working?" I hear a chuckle. "What about a girl you like?"
"Oh, uh. Maybe. Elizabeth. Beth. She's… nice. Oh! I see the police coming."
"You should ask her out."
"What?!"
"Well, think of it this way: Which is scarier. What you've just gone through, or her telling you no?" There's a long pause, and I hear shouting–probably the police–before I hear a sigh.
"Fair point, I suppose," Ethan says. "But if she turns me down, I'm blaming you." I laugh.
A/N: I don't like asking, so I'm not going to. But I would like to point out that reviews are ALWAYS welcome. If there's something you don't like about my fic, or you want to tell me how awesome I am (which, let's be honest, I'm pretty awesome), then please let me know. Reviews also kick my butt into writing more, which means more chapters more quickly. I love you all so much! Till next time!