Chapter Eight: My Mind Becomes Confused

Evelyn "Evie" Winstone is perched uncomfortably on the seat of the chocolate brown sofa in the sitting room of the penthouse. She has just come from work and so feels completely out of place in her blue coveralls with the various spots and splatters of oil and such on them. Dr. Watson, no John—he asked her to call him John—is in the kitchen where she presumes he is making tea. Sherlock Holmes is nowhere to be found. She twists a little, trying to get comfortable and get her thoughts in order. She gets a big whiff of herself while attempting a better position on the sofa all the while watching the entryway for the kitchen and the front door.

The scents of motor oil, petrol, and orange hand-cleansing soap hang about her person like an aura and are completely out of place here. She desperately wishes she would have taken the time to shower. She washed up as quickly as possible and raced down here after Tommy Finnery, the shop foreman, called her over to his laptop and showed her the notice that had been posted on the big social network site that morning. Once she recognized a single name from the entire post, it had been her only thought up until this very moment. Now that she is here, however, it seems foolish that she was in such a hurry. She takes a deep breath as John brings in a tea service for two on a silver platter.

Naturally, the sight of the fancy tea tray that she is fairly certain is real silver makes her even more uncomfortable. She looks around the room at anything that isn't John. He clears his throat and repeats the question that she obviously didn't hear.

"Sugar?" John waits with his hand on the lid of the sugar dish.

Evie starts a bit but swings her gaze back to him. "Yes, two please." She answers in a timid voice, watching him carry out her order. He hands her the white porcelain cup decorated with fine green vines and violets. Her hand shakes a little and she is absolutely mortified at the idea of breaking such a dainty thing. She takes a single sip and sets the cup down on the low mahogany coffee table between the sofa and the chair John dragged over when she had first arrived.

John decides that this young woman has beautiful blue eyes. He has to figure out a way to get her to calm down a bit so that he can ask her about Wickersham. He studies her a little, taking careful mental notes of the way she sets the cup down and the way she seems completely overwhelmed by the décor of the sitting room. With the coveralls and the oil stain across her forehead that she must have missed in her rush to arrive here, John considers that Evie is an out-of-doors type of person. He has a slight epiphany.

"Evie, would you like to sit outside?" Her eyes open impossibly wider and she nods to him. He seems to be alright, dressed in jeans that seem to be new with a white vest underneath an open blue-and-light green checked flannel shirt. If anything he reminds her of her grandfather, may his soul rest in peace.

Evie follows John across the room where he pushes open the glass door. He steps back and waves her through. The tension she has carried in her shoulders begins to leave her as she breathes deeply; very happy to be outside in the fresh but chilly air. She nods and gives John a little smile before settling into one of the metal café chairs. Evie sits in the corner of the balcony with her back against the wall but also so she can see the view and John simultaneously. Her dark brown ponytail brushes against the brick, pillowing the back of her head.

John Watson, retired M.D. has not been the partner of the World's Only Consulting Detective for the last six years plus not to have learned a thing or two. He can see that Evie has street smarts; she seems intelligent and obviously likes working with her hands. Seeing her relax a little, he decides that now is as good a time as any to start with the interview.

"Evie, you told me you saw Sherlock's post this morning. What part of it caught your attention?" John sits back in the chair and crosses his legs, noticing that the bottom of his trainers still have soot stains on them from the fire over two weeks ago.

"Charles Wickersham." Evie cuts right to the chase. There is something about John that is having a calming influence on her spinning mind, allowing her thoughts to become more orderly than they have all day. She stretches her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles. Her heavy work boots still feel incongruous here, but at least there's fresh air and not some thick posh carpet that the soles of her boots leave marks on.

John merely nods silently, an invitation to go on.

"He worked at the shop for a while last autumn, I want to say late August, early September. I remember that it seemed like he had a lot of problems, because he didn't really talk to anyone much. He said maybe, I don't know, twenty words to me the whole month he was there." Her gaze follows the skyline as two Peregrine falcons swoop by the balcony, their wings making barely a hint of sound as they pass by.

For a moment, they sit and watch the birds until Evie clears her throat. John turns to her and sees that there are tears on her cheeks and a faraway look in her eyes.

"Evie, what happened with Charles?" For once in his life, John isn't sure that reaching out to her would be a good idea, so he just softens the tone of his voice. Evie sniffs and wipes at her nose. Right at that moment, Phoenix chooses to waltz out the door and jump right up into Evie's lap. The young woman lets out a watery little laugh and her hands stroke the kitten as if drawn to the soft fur like a magnet.

"I'm really not sure, Mr. Wat—I mean John. He seemed like a decent-enough guy, so when he asked me down the pub that night after work, I said sure, why not. We sat and watched the match for a bit then went back to the shop. He said he had a job he was trying to finish for the next day." She strokes Phoenix and slouches down comfortably in the chair a little further.

"Evie, if you don't want to tell me right now, it's okay. We have established that you knew Charles personally and that's really what Sherlock was searching for, someone who could give us information into his…"

"Well, you see, Charles wasn't the name that he was using when he worked with me. I only found out about that later, after the fire."

"Fire?" John asks. That pretty much tells him that they are on the right track.

"Yes. That night, after I left in a hurry; honestly, I was up for a little fun, but not for what he wanted…not at the shop at least. I mean, granted, I love motorbikes and stuff, but that was just…well, weird." She pauses, waiting on John's judgment. When none is forthcoming, she continues. "Anyway, at that time he was going by Philip Wickers. A strange name, but then again, lots of people come looking for work, so no one was any the wiser; he had an ID, everything." Evie seems to realize that her tendency to run her motor mouth has kicked in and she quiets for a moment.

"May I tell what happened next?" A deep baritone from the doorway interrupts their conversation. John turns to see his partner leaning against the jamb, hands deep in the pockets of a black leather jacket, his hair quite fashionably mussed upon his head.

"You must be Mr. Holmes." Evie starts to rise but Phoenix gives a little mew of irritation. Sherlock steps over towards her and offers his hand. She shakes it gingerly, his broad pale paw pretty much engulfing her much smaller, browner one.

John smiles up at his gorgeous lover as Sherlock bends down to plant a soft kiss on his mouth. Evie lights up like a Christmas tree and when John turns back towards her, she is positively beaming. Oh god. He forgot about girls and their addiction to sweet-romantic-stuff.

Sherlock gives a little huff and winks at John. "Well, you are the one who used to chase them." John frowns up at him and smacks his behind loudly when Sherlock attempts to get out of range. Sherlock hears the unspoken you git but chooses to ignore it. The fact is, John and his dates used to drive Sherlock completely 'round the bend. Perhaps he has mellowed some; now it is just another part of their lives that they can joke about. Besides, he justifies to himself, there were an awful lot of them who only chased him trying to get to Sherlock in the first place.

Sherlock leans against the balcony with his back to the scenery, his elbows resting against the top of the wall. "Let me see: you left Charles at the shop and went home. It probably wasn't an hour before you were called and told that there was a fire at the shop. By the time the fire brigade showed up, there was only a single fire in a trash bin at the back and Charles was nowhere to be found. There was no other damage to anything, but possibly money was missing from the till?"

After all these years, John would think that he would get used to the expression on people's faces when Sherlock gave them their entire story in less than ten sentences. He still enjoys it. Every time. This time was no different; John could feel the goofy grin split across his face as he watches Sherlock's words tumble about Evie's mind.

"You checked up on me?" Evie asks in bewilderment, one hand unconsciously wrapping around Phoenix, who mews out her displeasure.

"I don't even know your name." Sherlock speaks ever so slowly.

Evie drops her eyes down to the kitten. "Evie Winstone."

"Ah, there's always something. I was thinking you were Evelyn." Sherlock's eyes twinkle with suppressed glee as he turns to face John, giving him a slow wink. He is beginning to enjoy learning pertinent facts about people and sometimes he manages to hold it in; a new thing he and John had cooked up a couple of years ago to basically keep John from killing Sherlock every single time he made a witness/victim burst into tears. For John, it was a way for Sherlock to soften the hard blows of his words, just a little, without changing the fact that the genius knew, well, pretty much everything. For Sherlock it had become another little game, a puzzle made up of how long he could hold everything in that gleaned from a new person at a single glance.

Evie actually laughs. She tells them that she only found out about Charles' real name because a man she thinks is a detective had shown her some photographs of people he thought may have set the failed fire. One of them had been a photo of the man she knew as Philip, even though it was taken a few years prior, it was unmistakably him. The detective had left and no one had ever questioned it again; until the on-line post from today. Sherlock regards her shrewdly, his cool green gaze tearing apart her story in the search for untruths.

Now it was Evie's turn to ask questions. "Why are you looking for information on Charles in the first place?"

Sherlock starts to speak. John is fairly certain that he will tell her everything, including how the budding arsonist had killed his parents at age nine. He isn't sure how good an idea that would be. He believes that Evie is telling the truth, but what he doesn't know is whether she still has any connection to the man. John holds up a hand and for once Sherlock shuts it. Quite literally, too, his jaw actually snaps shut. Drama queen, John thinks as he gives Sherlock a silent glare.

"Evie, have you had any contact with Charles since that night?" He asks.

"No. I never want to, either. He's kind of a bastard, John and Mr. Holmes." She stares directly into John's eyes, never faltering for a second. John absolutely believes her. He has a feeling that Charles had tried to force himself on her, though he is much too polite go down that road.

Sherlock isn't, however. "Charles tried to force you to have intercourse with him at the shop?"

Evie nods, still looking him straight in the eye.

"What stopped you?"

Evie looks down at Phoenix and as she does, something in her tough exterior falls away. She trusts these men and wants to tell them the part of the story even her grandfather had never heard. She strokes the orange and white fur and sighs, collecting herself before she speaks again. Her voice is soft enough that John and Sherlock both lean towards her in order to prevent her from being forced to repeat herself.

"He said that he wanted to have sex on the floor while the place burned down around us." Her expression is grim, completely blocking them out.

A silent agreement passes between John and Sherlock. Sherlock leans back against the wall and John copies his movements in the chair. Evie continues to pet Phoenix while she fights down the tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks. They allow her the solitude, both men only watching her out of the corners of their eyes. After a time, she sniffs and raises her head. "Please don't think ill of me. He was gone, there was no reason to tell anyone. Has he hurt someone?"

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest. "He burned our home to the ground."

Evie startles a little at the cold expression on his face. She thinks that she absolutely would not want to be Charles Wickersham, not for a second, not around this jade-eyed lion.

"Would you like something to eat?" John asks her, standing up. "I'm going to make some sandwiches. You are more than welcome to stay."

"Please. Thank you. Would you like some help?" Evie offers as she places Phoenix down on the wood. "Just let me wash up a bit first." The kitten trots away with her tiny tail stiff in the air.

"Sure, come on in. Bathroom is down the hall." With that, he stands back and lets her pass through the doorway ahead of him. His forward momentum is stopped when Sherlock reaches out and wraps his arms around John's waist, effectively trapping the shorter man against him. He leans downward and rests his forehead against John's bad shoulder.

"I am going to get him, John."

"We are going to get him, Sherlock."

~o~o~o~

Evie and Sherlock are having a small quarrel apparently for fun about which brand of crisps tastes best while John is sitting in his chair trying to decide which side to take when there is a knock at the door. Before he can even move to answer it, Mycroft steps into the short foyer with yet another stack of files in his hands. John can see him from his chair at table. Mycroft can hear the voices that are steadily growing in volume and laughter of the quarrel, though he can only see into the kitchen as far as John's chair from his angle at the entryway.

Mycroft's umbrella hangs over one arm, gently swaying with the rolling motion of his strides. As much as his brother snipes at him about being "fat," he is actually well-built, evidenced by the way his trousers tighten and release over the bunching muscles in his thighs. Today's suit is charcoal grey, he is wearing a light blue shirt underneath and has already rolled up the sleeves. Everything about him says he is in working mode; today it will not last long.

He freezes when he gets to kitchen. His baby brother is in the midst of having some sort of ridiculous spat with a girl about fifteen years Sherlock's junior. He catches a few words about "crisps" and then proceeds to tune out the entire bunch of gibberish. Unsure of whether he is welcome, he places the stack of files at the edge of the table away from the food. He then rests both hands on the back of the empty chair and studies this young woman.

Possibly aged between twenty-two and twenty-five; works at a mechanic shop somewhere nearby. There is a blue and white Honda VFR1200F down in the parking garage, could it be hers? She has obviously come to talk to John and Sherlock about the Wickersham case. Why is she still here?

To his considerable knowledge, they did not usually play host to witnesses or prospective clients any longer than they had to; that meant usually only long enough to get the information they sought. What was different about this one? He cast a wary look at John who was almost doubled over laughing at the other two. John certainly wasn't looking at this girl any differently than any other one of his friends…

Oh. John Watson has made a new friend. How nice. Well, that's it then.

Mycroft clears his throat twice before Sherlock and John even notice he's in the room. It is amazing to him how everyone else in his life either backs down or attempts shoe licking, except for these two. John stifles his giggles behind one hand while Sherlock simply goes mute, his bottom lip sticking out and his green eyes flashing. The young woman's blue eyes hold Mycroft's gaze from across the table and the whole world goes completely still. He takes note of the slight pinkish color of her cheeks brought about through her laughter with no less than his brother; John and Sherlock have ceased to exist in Mycroft's awareness at this point. Everything has come down to those eyes that are framed with long, dark lashes.

John's eyes move between Mycroft and Evie. He can't believe what he is seeing. Of course, it answers rather a bunch of questions that he's always had about the overly-controlling, nosy sibling of his best friend and lover; but is this really the time?

John comes out of his daze quickly. He gestures at the empty chair for Mycroft to sit. Mycroft doesn't move. John tries again. "Evie Winstone, this is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's big brother." Sherlock grins widely at John's little pick at Mycroft.

Mycroft resolutely ignores the gibe and holds out his hand. Evie shakes it and gives him a rather radiant smile. He can't believe that he is going weak in the knees like some stupid teenager. "I am pleased to meet you." He says. Though Evie sees an expression on his face that screams loudly to her that he has smelled something that must be yesterday's rubbish.

Evie blushes deeply, the red color a nice contrast against her olive complexion. All at once she is uncomfortable again. She doesn't belong here around these people who obviously have money running out of their ears. Who is she kidding anyway? Suddenly, the situation is falling apart around her.

"Um. I've got to go." She stammers as she casts her eyes about in panic for a way out of the kitchen. "Thank you Mr. Holmes and John for listening to my story." She looks quickly from one of them to the other, a field mouse caught between a hawk and a feral cat. Without another sound, she races from the room.

John and Sherlock both stand from their seats; Sherlock completely bewildered. He is wearing the John-this-is-your-jurisdiction face. John shrugs his shoulders just as the front door slams. He turns to Mycroft, his face starting to redden as his temper begins to flare to life like a match to paper.

"What the bloody hell did you do?" John shouts.

The tension in the room snaps like an old fan belt. Mycroft holds up both hands, the parasitic umbrella dangling off his arm. "John, you saw everything. What could I have possibly done to that young woman?" He wants to say beautiful but thinks better of it. There's no way that the Ice Man can show his cards here. He is completely at a loss as to what just happened; he'll die before he ever admits that to either one of these two.

John shakes his head and starts picking dishes up off of the table, slamming them against the counter. Mycroft watches him for a moment and then turns to his brother. Since he is so lost about the whole scenario, he decides instead to change the subject completely.

"I brought some more information on Wickersham…"

"Out, Mycroft." Sherlock crosses his arms and bares his teeth in a demonstrative growl at the lone wolf.

Mycroft is too tired for this bullshit today; really, he could have just gone home, but no, he decided on an early day to come over here. "You know what, figure it out on your own. You always do. I am unsure what you two said to that young lady, but apparently it was bad enough that she ran out of here like a scared hare. What was this, anyway? Buttering her up for more intelligence?" He gestures at the remnants of an easy lunch with both hands.

"That's it." John shouts. "You smug bastard. You came in here and you did something that upset our guest. Yes, she is absolutely the last person to have seen Wickersham in a year. So, yes, we did get information from her. However, she is also a very nice person who deserves to be treated decently!" John is actually poking Mycroft in the chest with one finger. Of course, the effect is almost spoiled by the fact he has to tilt his head back to look at Mycroft. Mycroft is nothing but obliging by looking down his nose at John.

Sherlock studies them carefully, knowing full well that John can hold his own against just about anyone. Of the three of them, Sherlock knows full well what his brother is capable of; he will not allow John to get hurt. If John takes a swing at Mycroft, though, that's altogether a completely different story.

"Captain." Mycroft states, his voice as thick as honey, his teeth bared in a wolfish grin. John seems to come to his senses and steps back, dropping his hand down to his side, an instinctive reaction to a given order.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. She seems like such a nice kid and it upset her to talk to us. I did the only thing I know." Sherlock is struck by how much John's voice has dropped. He knows his lover is genuinely upset about having to draw such dark memories out of people. He goes to John and stands at his side. John doesn't move and doesn't take his eyes off Mycroft. Some of John's anger is begins to subside when Sherlock steps in close and rests a hand on his lover's shoulder.

"I understand. I will leave the files for you. Perhaps I will find Ms. Winsome and apologize for interrupting what looked like a good time." Mycroft's blue eyes bore into John's. He means every word he says, though John will always dislike his attitude about it. John sighs and covers his eyes with his hands. Sometimes Mycroft is as spectacularly ignorant about things as Sherlock can be.

"Come down off your high horse, yeah?" John has been dealing with the Holmes brothers too long now to keep his mouth shut when he thinks advice is needed. Mycroft merely nods and makes his way to the door.

Quick apologetic note from the author here: I made a serious mistake. Mycroft is guessing that Evie is fifteen years Sherlock's junior, not his own. Please hold off on smacking me with wet noodles, I will fall at your feet and beg for forgiveness! Also-that's what I get for writing at stupid dark thirty in the morning. Thank you all for reading!