"So, I know you're a detective already," began Jo lightly once they were in a cab on their way to...wherever it was. "But what sort of detective are you if you have your own website and have to be asked to crime scenes?"

He peered at her from the corner of his eye, as though trying to feel out whether she was just going to take the mick out of him or not once he said something. Seemingly satisfied after catching her bemused quirk of the eyebrows, he said, "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job." At that he preened slightly. "When the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult me."

She contemplatively bit her lip. "You're an amateur, then?"

"You already know the answer to that," he replied. "I proved how I knew you were from Afghanistan at the club."

"So prove it again," she smiled. Sherlock was interesting, that much was obvious after knowing him only a few hours and one drunken night, and she wanted to know more about him. "Use my phone." Leaning over for better access, Jo pulled her mobile out of her pocket and passed it over to him.

With a smug tick in the corner of his mouth Sherlock turned the mobile only briefly over in his hands before tucking it into his lap. "You're sure?" he asked. "I don't want you to be angry. Not to mention you shouldn't be put under undue stress until the danger of spontaneous miscarriage has passed-"

He fell quiet under her stern look. "Sherlock, I'm not a daisy petal. Tell me about the damn phone." With that, he seemed to relax and inspected the phone again.

"Your phone is expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you've already mentioned that you're financially unable to support yourself, so why would you spend your precious funds on something as frivolous as this? It's a gift, then. It's been liberally scratched over time, which usually means it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. A conscious woman like yourself wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

The phone flipped over in his hands to reveal the back. "'To Harry, love Clara,' and three x's. Harry Watson is clearly a family member who's given you his old phone after leaving his wife. Harry isn't your father: this is a young man's gadget. The kisses and price of the phone leads me to believe that Clara is - or was - Harry's wife. It could have been a cousin, of course, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Pardon me, but it's unlikely you've got an extended family, and certainly not one you're close to, so brother makes the most sense. Clara must have given it to him recently, as it's only six months old. So the marriage is in trouble, then - six months old, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. Yet you aren't going to him for help, even though he's extended an olive branch. Why is that? It could be you liked his wife, or that you dislike his drinking."

"How do you know about the drinking?" she asked, trying to ignore the frantic beating of her heart. How one man could know so much about her from only a phone was both terrifying and impressive.

Still looking at her as though worried she might react badly, he continued, "There are scuff marks around the power connector - his hands were shaking when he went to plug it in at night. Though, of course, it could just be fumbling in the dark, but even the most clumsy of people would get the feel of it eventually. So, there you go, you were wrong."

"I was?"

"I'm no amateur."

She couldn't help it; Jo burst out laughing and hid her burning face in her hands as Sherlock pouted at her. It was just so surreal. The one man in all of London to find her interesting enough to sleep with and accidentally get her up the duff, and he was some sort of mad genius. She had always had an unusual lucky streak, whether that be in gambling or in arguing with her sister, but this really took the cake. "That was...I just can't believe...I'm in a bit of shock," she laughed, one hand on the flat of her chest. "That was just amazing."

"Was it?"

"Of course it was. It was spectacular," she assured him, and he smiled as he passed her phone back.

To her inquiring look he admitted, "That's not what people usually say."

Confused, she shook her head. "What do they usually say?"

"'Piss off.'"

At first she was appalled, but Sherlock looked so pleased that she wasn't telling him to piss off that she couldn't help snorting. "Well, it takes a lot to get me that angry," she assured him just as the cab was pulling up to a house in...somewhere. She was too embarrassed to ask where they were again. Sherlock climbed lithely out and looked ready to stride right past the caution tape, but at the last moment turned, held the door open, and offered her a hand out. At her pointed look he glanced away and put his hand down, but kept holding the door until she was on her feet and cane in her own time, thanks very much.

"Try to keep in mind that we're going to a crime scene," Sherlock told her as they approached the shady block of empty flats. "It would be unwise to get ill and contaminate it, so if you feel sick say so and I'll make the excuses for you."

"I'll be fine."

He nodded and glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Did I get anything wrong, by the way? I like to check when I can."

For a long moment Jo was loathe to say anything, but finally admitted, "Harry's my sister. Everything else was right, though." Even with her encouragement he spent the rest of the walk to the building cussing himself out over missing the "obvious" fact that Harry was short for Harriet. "It's fine, Sherlock. Everyone assumes Harry's my brother when I forget to mention her full name."

"But I'm not everyone," he pouted elegantly. Reaching for the tape cordoning off the crime scene, Sherlock was blocked off by a strikingly beautiful black woman with a radio on her shoulder and a surly look on her face.

"Freak," she greeted sourly. "What do you want?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and adopted a defensive posture almost immediately. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," he gritted out.

"Why?"

"He asked me to come."

"Why?"

"Funnily enough, I think he wants me to have a look around."

"Well you know what I think?"

"Always, Sally. And it's hardly ever interesting enough to warrant my time. Now may I?"

Still glaring as though her life depended on it, Sally twitched the tape in a begrudging signal for him to pass. Something about her screamed out 'angry ex' to Jo, for some reason. When Sherlock tried to hold up the tape for Jo to follow Sally intervened. "Hold on, who's this? You can't come in here." Now she sort of screamed 'jealous angry ex,' though Jo didn't know why anyone would ever be jealous of her.

"This is my colleague, Doctor Watson," lied Sherlock instantly. Jo kept her stare at the intimidating woman neutral, even as she scoffed in disbelief. The tape rose and Jo hobbled underneath, following close to Sherlock as he continued to lie and bicker his way into the building as if he were an old hat. The further they went the more Jo felt as though she weren't supposed to be there until she was suited up, standing over a dead woman's pink-swathed body, and feeling almost indecently excited.

DI Lestrade joined them once again, watching Sherlock closely as he flitted about like an overgrown bat. Apparently he was above the protective suits; Jo wasn't sure if she approved. But then he started talking in that deep voice, dipping and weaving and pulling everything he needed out of that impossibly impressive mind until she could almost see the words in the air before them, plain as day, visible and tangible as her own hand. The woman's ring was clean on the inside but dirty on the outside, her coat was damp under the collar, there were splash-patterns of mud on the back of her leg.

"That's amazing," she blurted out after that steamroller of deductive narrative. Sherlock and Lestrade - right he was still in the room; she'd gotten tunnel-vision on Sherlock while he was talking - stared at her and she flushed. "Sorry, I'll, ah-"

Though she didn't know him well enough to be certain yet, there was a rigidity to Sherlock's face as he said, "No, it's...fine," that made her think he was fighting a pleased smile. Did he never get compliments? She would have to see to that, though at the moment it didn't seem like such a difficult concept. Just to be safe, she smiled back, and he quickly turned so his back was to Lestrade. Once again Jo felt lucky to be in this mess with Sherlock and not someone less savory. She could have ended up with a rapist fathering her child, but instead had brilliant, mad, eccentrically kind Sherlock. Now was about the time in every other relationship that she would find out he was married or something. So far, so good.

With a shout about a suitcase, Sherlock vanished, leaving Jo abandoned at the top of a building with Lestrade crankily shouting after him. Within moments the forensic team had swamped in and Jo was shunted to the side, completely forgotten by all but the DI. He smiled sympathetically and offered to help her down the stairs, what with her cane and all. Irritation swarmed and she politely refused, gripping her cane in one hand and the squeaky railing in the other. Jo hoped that Sherlock had run ahead to get a cab, but sincerely doubted it since he'd been hollering about a suitcase and possibly a skip.

Surely enough, the street outside was empty but for Sally, who she'd heard Sherlock call Sergeant Donovan when he was trying to intimidate her. "He's gone," she said before Jo had a chance to ask. "He left; he does that. You can try the main road if you need a cab home."

Jo nodded politely and tried to shoulder past Donovan, but was stopped again when it was obvious she was being addressed. "You're not his girlfriend or his friend, you know," she called out. Jo turned to face her, bemused. "Sherlock Holmes? He doesn't have friends. He's a psychopath. Do you know why he's here? He doesn't get paid or anything; he likes it. He gets off on it. But you know what? Psychopaths get bored. And someday, being here and poking around in our business just won't be enough. One of these days, we'll all be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there. Mark me on that one. If you've got some sort of idea that if you love him enough you'll fix him, or he'll change for you, just throw that out the window right now. He doesn't listen, and certainly doesn't change. Don't trust Sherlock Holmes." She crossed her arms, confident that her point had been made.

Jo politely said, "I'll, ah, keep that in mind, thanks," and left as quickly as possible. Definitely a jealous ex, then, but she still couldn't manage putting two and two together. Instead, she aimed herself toward the main road and started walking resignedly. It was going to be a long trek home without cab fare. Irritation and anger warred themselves the more she thought about Sherlock leaving without even telling her how to get back or making sure she was capable of getting home, to such an extent that that she didn't hear the telephone ringing until just after she had passed. Then the public phone just inside a convenience store started to ring; Jo only noticed because as soon as an employee went to answer it stopped ringing. She hesitated but didn't come to a full stop. After that she was on a higher alert, and noticed that even the phone in an old broken-down police box had started and stopped ringing as soon as she was out of range. Finally she huffed her way into one of the bloody booths and answered. "Hello?"

Look to your left.

"What?"

Look to your left.

Biting her lip, Jo looked to her left. The only thing that stood out among the cars and people was a CCTV camera aimed right at her.

Now look to your right.

"I don't understand." There was an icy chill in her chest that make her feel sick.

Look to your right, the voice repeated firmly. With a deep breath that resonated all through her, she looked to her right to confirm that there was another camera looking at her. As she watched it swiveled and faced another direction. Now look up, over there.

The third camera wasn't all that surprising, though it made her shiver again. It turned to face the street just as a nondescript black car pulled up to the kerb.

Get in the car, Doctor Watson. I'm sure you understand the gravity of the situation.

Oh, lovely, she was being kidnapped. It didn't take much a stretch of the mind for Jo to figure out that it was something to do with Sherlock. She'd been kidnapped once before under entirely different circumstances, and was quite certain that the posh man on the other end of the phone line was not a member of a terror cell, though she couldn't eliminate the idea. Instead she resignedly got into the car and found yet another dangerously gorgeous woman waiting for her inside. Was the entire female population of London and her outdated wardrobe conspiring against her?

"So what's this about, then?" she asked, but the woman was intent on her phone. "Fine, thanks, how are you?" Sarcasm usually worked in situations like these, but at the moment was failing. "Who are you?"

The woman considered the question for a moment. "Hm...Anthea," she decided.

Pretty as the name was, Jo couldn't find the energy to be impressed. She was getting that odd competitive feeling again, bit it had different vibes than Donovan's anger. "You just made that up, didn't you?"

"Yep."

"Well, forgive me if I don't tell you mine."

Anthea smirked again. Her eyes never tore away from her Blackberry. "That's fine, Doctor Watson."

Jo fought the urge to reach across the seat and slap her. The whole situation made her feel unspeakably unsettled, even if Anthea's long legs were dredging up memories of several sunlit weeks with the similarly leggy brunette who would later marry her sister.

She was dropped off at the loading dock of an empty warehouse and let in the bay door. The silhouette of a tall man - taller than Sherlock - leaning on an umbrella was standing in a place of prominence, where it would be impossible not to see him. "You know, if you were so desperate for a word with me, you could just call me on my phone," she pointed out archly as she approached the man.

He smiled, sickly-sweet, and used his umbrella to point at a folding chair behind her. "Please have a seat, Doctor Watson, your leg must be bothering you."

"I'll stand, thanks."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

The man smiled again, briefly inspecting the tip of his umbrella before addressing her again. "What is your relationship to Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

Jo tried not to blink as she subtly shifted in place, keeping a pocket of air between her coat and her stomach. It was too soon for anyone but herself to tell, but she wasn't about to take any chances. "I don't know what you mean."

"You met yesterday, got together this evening to look at a flat, and now you're solving crimes together," explained the man blithely. "Should we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

Sweat broke out on the back of her neck and a muscle jumped in her jaw. She had to remind herself that he didn't know. This man didn't know she was pregnant. If she played dumb enough he might let her go. "I don't know what you're talking about," she insisted. "Who are you?"

Another smile. "An interested party. Though Sherlock Holmes would call me an enemy. His arch enemy, in fact." The thought seemed to amuse him. "He does like to be dramatic."

"Well it's a good thing you're above all that," she snapped, looking pointedly around at the empty warehouse and ignoring the answering smirk. "Can you just cut to the chase, please? This is getting a bit tedious."

"Well now, Doctor Watson, what could I possibly say to convince you that I mean well?" asked the man. "I could assist you, you see. You're not very well off, are you?"

She gritted her teeth. "In exchange for what? Information on Sherlock, I assume?"

"Nothing inclusive. Just brief updates on what he's up to, if he's getting to any mischief."

"No."

"I haven't even mentioned a figure yet."

"Still no."

"You're very loyal very fast," he laughed.

She growled back, "I'm not, I just don't like bullies."

With her declaration all went still. The planes of the man's face went rigid and dark. For several moments Jo held her breath, sensing that she'd somehow crossed a line.

"I am no bully," said the man, dangerously calm.

"So why do you want me to spy on Sherlock Holmes?"

The corner of the man's mouth quirked. "I worry about him," he announced, "constantly." Before she could comment on that little snippet of information he waved his other arm - only then did Jo notice he was holding a file folder. "Your therapist says that you have problems with trust, and that your traumatizing experience in the war haunts you. May I have a look at your hand?"

"Why?" she glared, pulling her hand closer on reflex. It flattened against her stomach; the man's eyes narrowed.

"No matter. It's perfectly clear to me," he dismissed, looking down at her from beneath his eyelashes. "You ought to get a new therapist, one who does their job properly. You're under duress but perfectly calm. You aren't haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it." A final, predatory smile stretched across his features in an oddly familiar way. "Welcome back."

Trying to remember how to take a proper breath, Jo spun on her heel and stalked away, leaning heavily on her cane. Anthea was waiting on the pavement beside the same car that had brought her to the warehouse. "I'm meant to take you home," she said.

Jo laughed bitterly to herself and shook her head. "Fine, whatever, but we're bloody well making a stop first."