Yay okay finally Chapter 19. I don't want to distract from the story. Go ahead. I won't bother you.

"That didn't prove anything," I stated, crutching through the front door. You put a finger to your mouth and shhed me, reminding me that it was still only four A.M. and we shouldn't be angry with the people who actually got to sleep. But my point remained the same. "There are plenty of red-haired girls in London. Red hair is in style. Red hair is normal."

"But he mentioned it. He didn't say she had green eyes. He said she had red hair." You shot me a look, removing your coat.

"He didn't say Anne, though! He just said red hair."

"How long are you going to deny it? I was right, you were wrong. She's working for E. We have enough evidence now to arrest and question her. If Lestrade wouldn't be so picky about his personal life, we could've closed the case ages ago."

"What if it's not Anne?"

"It has to be Anne." You sighed. "What you call coincidences, I call facts. Anne gave you the champagne. Anne has been almost everywhere we've been the last two weeks. Anne has been watching us over her shoulder since Lestrade introduced her to us. Now, a witness tells us that a woman with red hair, friend of E, brought him to meet her. How much more evidence do you need?"

"That's not evidence!"

"Not only did he say Anne was her friend, he used le ami. Not un ami. He said le ami. The friend. He made a point of identifying Anne as the friend. She must be special to her. Almost like Argall was special to her." You tapped your chin. "I wonder, then, if she'd get back into contact if we-"

"No, we're not taking Anne, or doing anything to Anne." I tapped my crutch. "Anne is honest. She hasn't done anything wrong, to either of us. Why can't you just trust her word? Greg's word? My word?"

"Because people make mistakes." You started up the stairs.

"And you're not people?" I called up.

You paused, turning to look at me. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

I sighed, leaning on my crutch and looking up at the looming staircase as you disappeared around the landing. My leg ached just anticipating climbing them. Of course, there was no room to install an elevator, so I grabbed the stair rail with my free hand and began pulling myself up. I saw as I reached the flat that you had cast your coat nonchalantly across my desk and run your face under the water from the tap.

"You get some sleep. I'll be there in a few minutes. I need to adjust my web." You looked over your wall.

"No. I'm not sleeping until we finish this." I leaned on the crutch, and you glared at me.

"You need rest. You're sick."

"Am not." I turned to stand beside you and look at the wall. I saw the photo of Anne (which I had no idea where you had gotten but was not about to ask) and stepped to rip it from its tack. You made a noise of complaint, but didn't stop me when I tore it in two. "You're not going anywhere near Anne. Understood?"

Your arms fell to your sides. "She's a suspect."

"No. She's not."

"It's not a choic-"

"Make it a choice. She's not a suspect." I paused. "Promise you won't go near her."

"I-"

"No. Promise."

"Y-"

"Promise me, Sherlock." I tapped my crutch. "She's a nice girl."

"Obviously not."

"Sherlock."

"Alright, I promise." You picked up the torn photo and pieced it back together. "But I'm keeping her on my board."

"Whatever you want, as long as you keep your promise." I shuffled back toward the bedroom door. "What time are you leaving?"

You glanced at your watch. "In a few hours. Want me to wake you?"

"No, you don't have to. I'm exhausted."

"Then text me when you're awake."

"Okay." I stepped through the bedroom door. "Goodnight."

"Wait."

I turned, leaning on the door. You made steady eye contact.

"Be careful."

"...in the bedroom?"

Your expression didn't change. "John."

I shifted my weight. "Alright, Sherlock, I'll be careful."

"Text often."

"Alright."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight." I shut the door.

Being honest, I was feeling half-hearted about meeting with Anne that afternoon. I was tired from the last night, a bit nauseous from the new pills, and regardless of my defense to you I was still suspicious of Anne in a little corner of my mind. It would have been easy enough to cancel without seeming rude - claim I wasn't feeling well, or something along those lines - but at the same time, I felt like a sitting duck alone in the flat. Dealing with one variable seemed slightly less dangerous than exposing myself to an unknown number of variables at home.

Thankfully it was a little warmer that afternoon, though the sun turned all the fresh snow to brown slush in the roads. It was a feat to try to avoid the puddles as I got from my cab to the walk, but somehow I made it with only reasonably soaked socks. The meeting place, a little streetcorner café named Sam and Christa's, was filled with people buzzing both in and around the doors. Anne had already secured a table near the window. She sat with her neck stretched out, watching for me.

We made eye contact through the glass, and she waved me inside. As I got closer she rose to hug me. "Hey, John! I'm glad you could make it."

"Yeah, I am too." I sat down and stretched out my leg. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late. It took me some time to hail a cab."

"Oh, it's no problem." She smiled and took her own seat, handing me the menu. "I've already decided, why don't you take a look. Don't worry about the price, it's my treat."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to. Sherlock covered us the last time, I should return the favor."

"Well, thank you." I glanced over the menu. There was not a shred of appetite left in me, but I figured I could stomach a little bit to avoid concern. "Are the salads any good?"

"Those are my favorite, actually. I'm getting the avacado one."

"How about this bean salad?"

"Ooh, that one's good too. Is that what you want? I can go order it for you." She held out her hand for the menu, and I passed it back.

"I can do it myself," I said, starting to stand.

"No, no, you relax. Rest that leg. I'll get it for you." She smiled, turning on her heel and starting for the counter.

There wasn't anything much different about her today than any other day, but I couldn't help but feel a little less than comfortable. It wasn't a surprise, but I didn't like it. She stood waiting beside the counter, fiddling with the fringe of her long knit jumper. Her hair was curled again in long maroon waves. Everything from the heels of her boots to the shade of her eyes seemed perfectly in-place. But something about the way she moved, with just a hint of uncertainty, seemed strange.

She strode back a few minutes later, returning to her chair with a little bounce. "All ordered. They'll bring it out in a few minutes."

"Thanks, Anne." I smiled at her, and she smiled back.

"Of course." She leaned onto her elbows and laced her fingers under her chin. "So, how are things? Has everything with Sherlock been sorted out?"

"Eh, it seems like the more we 'sort out' the more that shows up," I muttered, taking a sip of water.

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. There are more important things to worry about than little arguments."

"Yeah, Greg told me about the burglary. Neither of you got hurt, did you?"

"No, we didn't. Sherlock got a few good blows to the face, but nothing serious." I shifted in my seat. "Greg told you about that?"

She nodded, her expression tender. "They caught him, right?"

"Yeah. He's under arrest."

"Good. I'm sorry that had to happen to you. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, we just need to be extra careful to lock things."

"No, I mean, with the stress."

"Oh. Yeah, I think so. It's just a little thing. I think since we caught the burglar it'll be alright."

"You've had a few burglaries lately, haven't you? When you got that nick in your forehead?"

"Yeah, there was that one." I touched my forehead. "But they caught that guy too."

"That's good."

I nodded. "But enough about me, Anne. Let's talk about you."

She chuckled. "We scheduled this so we could talk about you."

"I know. But I don't want this to turn into some kind of therapy session. You get to talk sometimes, too."

"Alright." She smiled. "Whatever you want to talk about."

I brought up travel and university, she brought up crap tele and medical school, and together we made idle small-talk while we waited for our meals. They came within the next few minutes. Although both admitted that we weren't very hungry, we stirred our salads and enjoyed each other's company nonetheless. Her conversation was smooth and interesting. Time passed disregarded, and as the sun marched, the discomfort I felt gradually melted away.

"Y'know, my sister is allergic to avacado," Anne mentioned, looking down at her salad. "Not the really dangerous kind of allergic, just the itchy-coughy kind of allergic. To this day she continues to eat guacamole."

"Really?" I laughed. "Harry does the same thing with strawberry jam."

"She's allergic to strawberries? I've never heard of a strawberry allergy."

"I've never heard of an avacado allergy, either."

She shrugged. "Touché."

I cleaned my hands with my towel and set it on the table. "Are you comfortable talking about your parents?"

"Sure, if you're curious."

"I am, a bit. What line of work is your father in?"

"He's a chemist. Real science-y." She tilted her head. "Why?"

"Just wondering." I reached for my glass again. "You just seem pretty comfortable talking about crime scenes or dating a man with such a high-risk job as Greg."

"Eh, I watched too many horror flicks as a kid." She laughed. "But, what does that have to do with my dad?"

"Nothing, I guess. Sherlock made me read this study a while ago about a child's stress tolerance directly relating to the stress of their parent's profession."

"Well, I don't think that's the case with me."

"I guess not."

Anne swirled her own glass. "You work with Sherlock a lot, don't you?"

"Quite a bit, yeah. I'm his official medical expert, and the guy people talk to when they actually want their emotional boundaries to be considered."

She smiled. "Quite a title."

"It's my pride and joy."

We laughed, and she leaned forward in her chair. "Do you like working with him?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"Most of the time?"

I nodded. "Usually it's great work. Catching criminals, solving puzzles, saving people. It's exciting and for the most part gratifying. But there are some cases that just grate on me. Not all of them turn out well, and some of them just cause more trouble than they fix." I sighed. "The personal ones get tiring, too. Like this one, with the burglary and what happened at Mycroft's."

"Oh, with the fainting? I thought they decided that was mental."

"We still haven't concluded anything. And now there's the burglaries, that may or may not even be related."

"Wow, that's scary to think about."

"Mm-hmm. It's much easier on the nerves to work the case rather than to experience the case. But Sherlock always has enemies. There have to be some of them stupid enough to aim for him through me."

Anne nodded, then paused, her eyebrow crooking. "Wait, what?"

"Sometimes they decide that the best way to hurt Sherlock is to hurt me. Which isn't wrong, but it's a bit obnoxious."

"So you think that someone is messing with you in order to get to Sherlock?"

"That's usually what happens." I shook my head. "He's the detective, the name in bold print in all the newspapers. Criminals tend to direct their attention toward him whenever they're itching for revenge, but every now-and-again I get the strays. I'm the smaller target, I guess; just the blogger."

"That's not true."

"No, I'm not just saying that to be modest. It's true. Sherlock attracts the attention, not me. And I'm glad for it. I'd rather not be swatting foreign hitmen off my shoulders every few weeks. God knows how long I'd last."

"No, John." She sat forward, looking me dead in the eyes. "I mean it's not true."

"Really, Anne, it's fine." My stomach took a strange turn with her intensity.

Her voice dropped just slightly. "You've got it wrong."

"Wrong?" I repeated, suddenly out of breath.

Shadows started to deepen on the outskirts of my vision. I tried to make sense of Anne, struggling to identify the ominous shudder that was settling in my chest. Or maybe it wasn't just a feeling. My lungs began to tighten. The hairs on my arms stood on end. Something was wrong.

A man now stood above our table, his heavy black coat reaching down to his ankles. His hat covered most of his face, but when I lifted my head up at him, I could see the bright squint of his eyes. The musky smell of a cigarette was still tangled in his clothes. One of his large hands fell on my shoulder, and my heart nearly stopped.

It was Jack Argall.

"You're getting slow, Watson." He smirked.

Blisters of darkness swelled across the room. I felt my body start to sway, only Argall's firm grip keeping me upright.

"Come quietly," Anne whispered, "and we won't have to hurt you."

You're welcome.

Let me know if you spotted any inconsistencies by the way. I combed through most of it but I didn't have time for nitpicking so I'll correct anything you guys point out. (That's the point of reviews, right? Idk man just wing it)

These reviews won't go away, they've been knocking me sideways

Next update Sunday