The Basement

In which there is defeat, a move and chemistry

The three of them sat in silence. All three had much to say, and little time to say it in, because two of them knew the third was on a short fuse. Like any sensible person, they wanted to clear the kitchen before anything blew up. Lana and John sat, playing with their food and stealing glances at Sherlock, who was proceeding to grind a pen with extreme force into the table. Both waited for him to speak.

With a clatter, Sherlock threw the pen onto the counter. The echoes of plastic hitting metal bouncing around the kitchen seemed to reawaken him to the gaping hole he was making in the conversation, and he finally spoke.

"Well, have you two done anything useful?"

He was on a shorter fuse than they thought. John spoke up quickly. "I had some time off during my shift to run some theories and make a few phone calls."

"So aside from order food and call your girlfriend, did you do anything actually relevant?"

John brushed off the insult and pressed on. "Irene's been moving around plenty since she ended up in London. Renting new flats, changing identities, but it's always her; she's fairly easy to trace," he added, throwing Sherlock a meaningful look.

"The eye drawn on the wall?"

"Of course."

"How many?"

"At least four; all the same."

"She's baiting us," Sherlock muttered, mulling it over. "Adler's too smart to think we don't know she's here. She's leaving us obvious clues, testing us to let us try and find her location…" he was back in silent mode, and Lana spoke quickly to avoid another awkward pause.

"I went down to that acupuncture place that was on the card."

They stared at her, suddenly alert.

"Well?" asked Sherlock?
"Well, nothing. There's nothing there but a mystic's house." Lana reached into her bag and dug out her laptop, which she opened and placed on the table. "I took some pictures of the exterior, though, so you can take a look."

Both men crowded beside her, looking at the screen as Lana flicked through the pictures. The house was tall, and old; nothing was particularly alarming about it aside from its Victorian style and a wooden sign above the door that bore the same message and symbol as the card. Wide bay windows were all covered by wide curtains that shut the inside out from the rest of the world.

"What've you got?" asked John

Sherlock paused. "Not much." When John threw him a look, he continued. "House is roughly 40 years old, badly in need of repair and only recently bought. It's Victorian-style but not age based on the state of it and the materials, so, home to someone wealthy originally. Today, it'd be considered decent lodgings with plenty of rooms and a few customers a few times a week. Well-protected and a good spot for a crime ring." He turned back to Lana. "That doesn't give us anything to work with when it comes to the situation right now."

"That situation being?"

At this, Sherlock stood and pulled a large cardboard box out of the freezer, which he placed unceremoniously on the table, almost landing in the middle of John's bowl of soup. Ignoring John and Lana's sudden haste to get dinner off the table, Sherlock began pulling out the various bags and vials of blood that he had been studying all day. "I took the blood in for DNA testings to make sure I wasn't mistaken and it came up with a list of these names and photos, the same ones I came up with when I tested them myself a few weeks ago," he produced a sheet of paper, which he handed to Lana. "For once the Yard wasn't completely useless. Anderson nearly had a fit though, when I walked in with a bag full of blood and made everyone leave."

"Is there any reason for him not to hate you? You were the one who made him and his wife get a divorce."

"I had nothing to do with it!" Sherlock scoffed.

"You told the whole yard that he was sleeping with Donovan. I think that's reason enough," John pointed out. Noticing Lana hadn't snapped at Sherlock in the past five seconds, John turned to look at her. Lana was sitting on the counter, staring at the list of names Sherlock had given her. She was completely white, and her eyes were like saucers. The bruises on her arms stood out like black blotches; she looked like a tortured ghost.

"Lana? Are you alright?" asked John.

Lana's mouth moved, but no words came out. It took a long time for her to remember to breath and even longer for her to explain. "My god," she whispered. "It's them. It's all them, the missing executives. A little plastic surgery, and some fake names, but it's definitely them."

"Yes, obviously," Said Sherlock curtly, sweeping the files back into his arms. He swung himself out of the kitchen and into the living room, refusing to look at her.

"Sherlock, you don't understand, this is great. You know for sure that they're hunting the executives now, so all we have to is get the word out to them and-"

"No, miss Heart, I DO understand," Sherlock spat out from his place by the window. "If this is so perfect, where do you propose we go from here? Because the last time I checked, 11 of these men have already been killed!"

As though to enforce the last word, Sherlock threw one of the nearest books into the wall with a bang. It contrasted the following silence perfectly.

"What do you mean '11 of them'?" asked Lana, her face growing pale.

Sherlock threw her a withering, angry look that sent her reeling as he reached for the door and wrenched it open. Behind it on the landing was a thoroughly surprised Detective Inspector LeStrade.

….

"Damn it!" Lana slammed her arm into the wall and leaned against it, trying to contain her anger. Beside her on the table were shots of the mutilated body of Mr. Timothy Canis, the eleventh of the murdered executives. He had been ripped open by an assassin group known only as The Razorback, but on his still-clear chest was drawn the huge eye in blood-red lipstick. John, who was sitting nearby, picked up the photos and stood up. He strode down the hallway and stopped outside Sherlock's bedroom door. He paused for a moment, and then started knocking down the door with all the force he could muster.

"You can't keep hiding in there, you know. I know you're annoyed you haven't caught her yet but people have died and more will die soon unless you get out here and help us, Sherlock!"

For a moment, there was no response, and then a voice slithered out from behind the door.

"Is LeStrade gone?"

"Yes", John sighed.

With that the door flew open, and Sherlock was standing there, dressed in his jacket, gloves and scarf. Striding past John as though he was a table, Sherlock walked back into the living room and faced Lana with a look of maddening superiority.

"Get your things. We've got a killer to catch. I've already called a cab."

"What?" asked Lana, thoroughly confused. John, however, was returning, pulling a jacket over himself as he came. After two years, this was normal, and he almost felt a surge of pity as Sherlock advanced on her. As John left the flat, he saw Sherlock step forward and get closer to Lana with a look of growing excitement. He wasn't worried - Lana could hold her own just fine.

"Lana, there's a serial killer loose in London who's murdering executives of a fallen company and also wants all three of us dead. She's ruthless and a bit demented and we know her next target. And since I know you're coming with us I'd prefer you didn't freeze to death."

"What's the guarantee that I'm coming?" asked Lana, her bluff failing her.

"Why else would you stay here?" asked Sherlock, one foot out the door. "Look, my patience is wearing thin. So I'll only say this once." With these words, he took a step closer and suddenly darted out and caught Lana by the wrist. Caught by surprise, she flew directly into his chest. When she looked up, Lana found herself nose to nose with him, Sherlock's words loud and clear in her ears.

"Lana Heart, get your coat."

….

Three Weeks Later

"What part of 'be careful' didn't you understand, you idiot?"

Sherlock stood in the room, rubbing his sore shoulder and swearing under his breath. He had kept his grip on his side of the bed when he slammed into the door frame, but Lana could tell his grip was failing, so she quickly guided him into the room and lined up the mattress on the bed frame. Immediately, Sherlock, rolling his shoulder, quickly left the room, muttering something about a dressing table. Lana could hear him banging on the wall up the as he headed back up the stairs, cursing the door frame as he went. With a light laugh, Lana adjusted the bed and began slipping her sheets over the bare mattress.

It was three week since Canis had died, and Lana figured that if they were going to continue working together, they needed to stop acting like they were hiding her. She was wasting their couch space and as much as she admired their chivalry, she was in no mood to spend the rest of her time in London skulking in a man-cave. So, ignoring their warnings, Lana had marched downstairs and knocked on Missus Hudson's door. The elderly landlady had taken the news that her two men upstairs had been hiding a girl upstairs for the past two and a half weeks fairly well. After Lana made her two cups of tea and fed her their story (She and Sherlock were dating, they were working on a case, etc, etc.) Missus Hudson finally spoke.

"Well dear, I wasn't ever sure about those two upstairs, even with Dr. Watson's lady friend coming round plenty, but I suppose everything straightens itself out in the end. I wish you had said something earlier, but I'm afraid that the only other apartment we've got is the basement one, if you don't mind the damp. Goodness knows you've certainly got me surprised, I never thought Sherlock would look into a lady. I'll work out the rent with you later dear, you take your keys."

'At least she didn't throw me out' Lana thought as she spread out the comforter, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. 221C was empty and faded, but the light spilling onto the bed from the window helped warm up the room. She decided it looked decent enough.

"Where do you want this?" asked Sherlock, reemerging from the hallway carrying a small dressing table.

"Here's fine." Lana pointed alongside the bed. "You took your time." Sherlock ignored her and set the table down with deliberate force. Lana heard the drawers rattle.

"Really, where did you find all this junk anyway?"

"Missus Hudson had some extra furniture she said I could use for now. Nice of you to call her things junk. Besides, now I'm out of your hair and off you couch."

"What's wrong with my couch?"

"Well, it's yours, so it's rude."

"I don't mind."

"Don't lie. Look, if me staying here bothers you I can leave."

"Lana, you're not a bother."

"Could have fooled me."

The two of them chilled the room with the ice of their stares.

Sherlock's face twitched. "Fine. You don't believe me, then leave. I don't need you here if you're not going to be helpful. I've appreciated your help but at this point you're just being an idiot and i don't have time for idiots. Don't you understand that?"

Lana wasn't sure she had heard him right. She wasn't sure what to think about Sherlock's reply- in fact, she wasn't sure about him at all. After two weeks she could say she knew plenty about John (including that he was a sucker for Chinese food, could sing decently well and was rubbish at Parcheesi), but Sherlock was still an empty slate. She couldn't get a fixed read on him, aside from the fact that he was blunt, arrogant, good with a gun, and brilliant. He didn't show a lot of emotion and almost everything he said made her want to punch him. Yet his intensity, his wit and his eccentric nature drew her in and kept her interested in him. His brilliance gave her something to try and match-without much success- and she enjoyed being a better shot than he was. And although it pained her admit it, she thought he was handsome- although she would never say that to Sherlock.

...

After a moment, Lana looked up. Sherlock was staring at her, his face impossible to understand. It was strange; he almost looked... embarrassed. Her face folded into lines of confusion as Sherlock took a step toward her.

"I'm sorry, Lana."

"You have nothing to apologize for," She replied, a smile just starting to form on her face. "What's going on?"

"I'm...not sure."

"Well, if you've got something to say, then say it."

Lana wasn't sure what happened next. Honestly, I don't think Sherlock knew either. All either of them knew was that one moment they were standing in the new apartment, staring into each other's faces, and the next Sherlock had wrapped Lana in his arms and he was kissing her.

It caught Lana by such a surprise that she didn't react immediately. She simply stood, wrapped in Sherlock's arms, trying to comprehend that his lips were pressed against hers. But then away fell the analysis, and all Lana could see was a lifetime ahead of her full of Sherlock and Sherlock's annoying insults, and his gun-crazy mornings, and his kisses that struck her dumb.

Lana knew she had broken their unsaid rule.

Well, so had he. So she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

There was another moment of stillness; Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for what do do next. Realizing she would have to take control of the situation, Lana slid her hands down his arms, pushing her lips slightly harder against his and moving closer to him. The height difference was becoming a problem; her toes were starting to go numb. And just when she thought she would have to drop a few inches and regain some feeling in her feet, Sherlock seemed to get the message. tightening his grip, he lifted her slightly off the ground, fitting his mouth properly against hers.

Above them, dust swirled.

….

"So, what now?" asked Lana.

The two stood in the middle of the room, slightly pink in the face and afraid to break eye contact. After a long and thoughtful pause, Sherlock chanced a grin.

"Well, I'm going upstairs to investigate further into Irene's movements, run some searches for this mystery executive, alert LeStrade, get ready to break into the House of Acupuncture, and then, Miss Heart, I'm taking you to dinner."

"I thought digestion slows you down."

Sherlock's grin widened. "I'll make an exception. Besides, we have to come up with nine weeks of a relationship to tell John about."

As he swung himself out of the flat, Lana couldn't help but smile. There was a serial killer who wanted her dead, and she was sharing a flat with two strange men who put themselves in danger to pay the rent, and yet things had never looked brighter.

If this was love-drunk, she didn't mind.

Up next- House arrest

In which there is an interrogation, so house-breaking and a revealed secret.