Unending Song Chapter 3: Blackberries and Canes, a sherlock fanfic

One of the most amazing things that can happen is finding someone who sees everything you are and won't let you be anything less. They see the potential of you. They see endless possibilities. And through their eyes, you start to see yourself the same way. As someone who matters. As someone who can make a difference in this world.

-Susane Colasanti

The car pulled into an almost-empty warehouse. A man in a suit stood standing at the centre of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella as he watched the car stop. I climbed out began to walk over to him

He had a thin chin, small lips, and thin brown hair. He wore a well tailored suit and expensive shoes. In front of the man, a straight-backed armless chair stood facing him. The man gestured to it with the point of his umbrella as I limped towards him leaning heavily on my cane. Stupid leg...

"Have a seat, Anna."

I ignored him and kept walking, deciding not to answer. Maybe this was wasn't my smartest move, but if the man could hack into security cameras on completely separate buildings, then he was obviously someone unsatisfactory.

"You know, I've got a phone." I said, glancing around the warehouse. It was creepy. Half full and only some of the lights turned on. Very creepy. "I mean, very clever and all that, but you could just phoned me. On my phone."

I ignored the chair he'd provided for me and stopped just in front of him. Sitting down would put him above me, and in an unknown situation, having equal playing field was key.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." said the man. His voice, which had a pleasant tone in it at first became a little more stern towards the end. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down." That pleasant smile was back, even spoken with a gracious voice. I didn't believe it for a minute.

"I don't wanna sit down." I looked up at him, face blank. I was rather good at that. I didn't like have my emotions played out over my face all the time. I certainly didn't want this man to know what I was feeling. I could tell from the ominous car ride and the vacant, abandoned area that he was trying to intimidate me.

The man looked me over curiously. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening," I countered.

The man chuckled, true mirth on his face. "Ah, yes. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" I felt my eyebrow twitch as he subtly called me stupid. 'Control. Focus.' No need to punch him. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him..." I blinked, realizing that I'd barely known him for a day. " ... yesterday."

"Mmm," said the man, unconvinced. "And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

I sneered at him. "Oh, you're funny, too! Who are you?"

"An interested party." I frowned.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?" I had to give him that one. Sherlock seemed to repel people more often that he attracted them. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?" I questioned. "Really?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." I could certainly believe that.

I pointedly looked around the empty warehouse before looking back at him with a bright smile. "Well, thank God you're above all that."

The man frowned at me. Obviously he wasn't used to people being blatantly rude to his face. My phone trilled, telling me I had a text alert. I immediately fished it out of my pocket, eager to have an excuse not to talk to the rude man.

Baker Street.

Come at once if convenient.

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

"Not at all." I said casually as I put my phone back in my pocket. Sherlock left me stranded in Brixton with a limp leg and no idea where I was. He could wait awhile.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" The man asked, finally getting to his point.

"I could be wrong," I started, feigning a look of doubt, "but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be." said the man ominously.

"It really couldn't." I disagreed seriously, my voice soft.

He looked at me for a moment before reaching into his pocket. The man took a notebook from his inside pocket, then opened it and began to read from it.

"If you do move into, um ... two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." He shut his notebook and put it away.

"Why?" I asked suspiciously.

"Because you're not a wealthy woman," said the man, as though this should be an obvious reason.

"In exchange for what?" I asked, knowing that things like that offer always came with strings attached.

"Information." The man said simply. "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly." Oh. I felt a little wary now. Was he obsessed with Sherlock?

"That's nice of you," I said insincerely.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship." It was starting to sound sketchy. I didn't know who he was, but I knew that I wasn't going to help him in any way. My phone trilled again. I took it out once more and saw a new text message.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

I smiled at the text. Oh, yes. There was something interesting in this. I couldn't describe what it was, but something about Sherlock just drew me to him. "No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," said the man.

I put my phone away. "Don't bother."

The man laughed briefly, looking at me with something akin to wonderment. "You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, I'm not," I disagreed.

The man looked at me closely for a moment before he took out his notebook and and flipped it open. He gestured to something written on the paper. "Trust issues," it says here."

"What's that?" I asked, beginning to feel a bit unnerved.

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" The man asked, ignoring my question as he casually flipped through the pages. Trust issues. I thought back to my therapist. She'd written down that I'd had trust issues. Did he somehow get into my records? And was trusting Sherlock really such a bad thing?

"Who says that I trust him?" I asked carefully.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," said the man. I wasn't sure if he is answering my question or asking me one.

"Are we done?" I asked irritably.

"You tell me." The man stared at me, and everything on his face told me that he was leaving it completely up to me.

I pursed my lips and nodded my head to myself. I turned on my heel and began to limp away, more than ready to be away from the man.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him," said the man behind me. I winced, not bothering to stop walking. "but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

I stopped dead. I felt my shoulders tense and drop as I angrily shook my head. Why was I turning around? He was obviously goading me to try and keep me there. To try and convince me to spy on Sherlock for him.

I glared at the man, trying to control my anger. "My what?"

The man responded calmly, merely glancing at my hand and then back at my face. He smiled. "Show me."

He planted the tip of his umbrella on the ground, making it obvious he is quite used to having his orders followed without hesitation or question. I refused to be intimidated and deliberately shift my feet under myself. I raised my left hand, bending it at the elbow, and stand still. My message was clear: if the man wanted to look at my hand, he'd have to come to me. Apparently unperturbed by my belligerence, the man strolled forward, hooking the handle of the umbrella over his arm as he reached for my hand. I instantly pulled my hand back a little.

"Don't." I said tensely.

The man lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at me, almost as if saying, 'Did I mention trust issues?' I very reluctantly lowered my hand, holding it out flat with the palm down. The man took it in both of his own hands and looked at it closely.

"Remarkable."

"What is?" I asked as I quickly snatched my hand away.

The man turned and walked a few paces away. "Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turned towards me again. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" I asked tersely, choosing to ignore his question. If he knew where I lived, he obviously knew what I'd been doing.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." Said the man conversationally. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

I almost flinched as the man accurately fired off facts at me. The man obviously was so interested in me because of Sherlock. If I'd only known Sherlock for one day, how much would the odd man know about me by tomorrow? Or next week?

"Who the hell are you?" I asked angrily and a little desperate. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her." The man said firmly, once again ignoring my questions, eyeing me steadily. "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

My eyes flickered down towards my hand before returning to stare ahead of myself, face set and struggling to hold back my anger.

"You're not haunted by the war, Ms. Watson ... you miss it."

He leaned closer to me. Reluctantly, my eyes rose up to meet his.

"Welcome back." The man whispered softly.

He turned and started to walk away just as my phone trilled another text alert.

"Time to choose a side, Ms. Watson," said the strange man casually, twirling his umbrella around as he left.

I stood fixed to that spot for a few seconds, then turned and glanced towards the departing man as, behind me, the car door opened and not-Anthea got out and walks a few paces towards me, her attention still riveted to the Blackberry held in front of her in both hands.

"I'm to take you home," not-Anthea said sweetly.

I half-turned towards her, then stopped and took out my phone to look at the new message. It read:

Could be dangerous.

I really couldn't help but smile. I looked back at Not-Anthea, who was looking at me curiously. "We'll just make one stop before then, all right?"

After stopping off by my flat to grab my handgun, I returned to the car with not-Anthea and continued the ride to 221B in near silence with the only sound being not-Anthea's keypad on her Blackberry. Really, what was she doing on it? Probably pretending to be doing something important so she wouldn't have to talk to me. I slouched back in my seat, messing with the zipper on my jacket. Was I really that dull? Then again, a character like the man I'd just met probably had a lot of things on his plate. I shouldn't have been surprised that he'd have an assistant to do things for him.

We pulled up in front of 221B and I quickly climbed out of the car, grateful to be anywhere but near the rude woman, who didn't even bother saying goodbye. Really, it wasn't that hard.

I limped up to the door and tapped the knocker against the wood lightly, hoping Sherlock was still awake and I wouldn't be bothering Mrs. Hudson. No luck. She opened the door, looking slightly frazzled. She beamed when she saw me. "Oh, Anna! Wonderful to see you, dear! You wanting to see Sherlock, then? He'll be upstairs now. He must be asleep - haven't heard a peep from up there in almost two hours!"

I smiled and nodded as Mrs. Hudson let me in. "So it's all right for me to just head on up, then?"

"Oh, yes, fine," Mrs. Hudson said with a wave. "His door's usually unlocked." She paused for a moment then looked at me in an almost motherly kind of way. "I've known Sherlock for a while, dearie. He's a nice boy, he really is. But he's an odd one, as well. Very detached. Almost otherworldly if you ask me. You seem like a very nice young lady, so I just wanted to warn you before you get yourself too attached to him."

I felt a blush hit my cheeks as she looked at me with concern. "Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson, I think you have this wrong. I've only just met Sherlock very recently. We're not involved in any way. We're just helping each other out. I help with the bills and he gives me a place to stay. Simple as that."

"If you say so, dear," Mrs. Hudson said in a voice that remained unconvinced. "Up you go."

When I got up the stairs, the door to the living room flat was wide open. I carefully peered inside and stopped dead in shock. Sherlock was laying on the sofa with a calm expression on his face. He wasn't wearing his jacket and the sleeves of his dress shirt were pushed up his arms. He was pressing the palm of his right hand firmly to the bottom of his left arm below his elbow. After a few moments, his eyes snapped open and he let out an almost blissful breath of air and relaxed further into the couch.

"What are you doing?" I asked quickly.

Not bothering to look at me, he continued to stare at the ceiling as he answered. "Nicotine patch. Helps me think." He lifted his left arm to show three nicotine patches stuck to his arm. I felt my eyes widen. He must have been trying to get the chemical into his system faster by pressing them to his skin too tightly. I could see angry red fingers marks against the pale skin. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork."

"It's good news for breathing," I supplied as I walked into the room.

Sherlock snorted dismissively. "Oh, breathing. Breathing's boring."

I couldn't help but bring up the fact that he was wearing three patches on his arm. That seemed a little excessive. "You're wearing three patches, Sherlock."

"It's a three-patch problem." I pursed my lips and moved to stand beside the couch. I didn't know him well enough to lecture him about his life, but the nurse in me was having a field day. Instead, I simply broached the subject of why he'd called me to the flat.

"Well?" Sherlock didn't respond. I grit my teeth for a moment. What an infuriating man! "You asked me to come. I assume it's important."

He didn't respond for a while and I was about to flick his ear when he finally spoke. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

I blinked. My phone? He called me all the way there to ask to borrow my phone? "My phone? You want to borrow my phone?"

"Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson has a phone downstairs."

"I tried shouting but she didn't hear." I frowned. Mrs. Hudson said she hadn't heard him make a sound in the last two hours.

"I was on the other side of London, Sherlock." I said, my voice getting agitated.

"There was no hurry," Sherlock said mildly. I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch. I focused my eyes on the ceiling, willing my heart to stop it's frustrated beating. I waited several seconds before I pulled my phone out of my pocket and passed it to him without looking.

"Here." Prat.

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock held out his right hand with the palm up. I glowered at him for a moment, then stepped forward and slapped the phone into his hand. Sherlock slowly lifted his arm and put his hands together again, this time with the phone in between his palms. I turned and walk a few paces away before turning around again.

"So what's this about – the case?"

"Her case." Sherlock said softly.

Did he have to be so frustrating? "Her case?"

Sherlock opened his eyes but didn't look at me. "Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case. So?" I really wished he would just fill me in sometimes. It got so tiring feeling stupid all the time.

Sherlock spoke quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself. Maybe he thought he was. I honestly wouldn't have been surprised if he'd forgotten I was there entirely. "It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." He imperiously held the phone out towards me, still not looking at me. "On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

I could practically feel that twitch in my jaw turn to full-blown spasming. "You brought me here ... to send a text." My voice was practically shaking with angry disbelief.

Sherlock spoke calmly, quite oblivious to my rather obvious frustration. "Text, yes. The number on my desk."

He continued to hold the phone out while I glowered at him, and went through a series of scenarios usually ending up with my hands wrapped around the arrogant man's throat. Deciding it wasn't worth the lawsuit, I stomped across the room and snatched the phone from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock refolded his hands under his chin and closed his eyes but instead of asking what to type, I walk over to the window and look out into the street below. Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head slightly towards me.

"What's wrong?" He didn't ask out of concern or genuine curiosity. He asked because his orders weren't being followed.

"Just met a friend of yours." It only seemed right to tell him about to unnerving man who'd practically kidnapped me. I noticed Sherlock frown in confusion.

"A friend?"

"An enemy, I suppose," I corrected myself.

Sherlock immediately relaxed. Odd man. "Oh. Which one?"

"Your arch-enemy, according to him." I turned to face him, honestly curious about the strange man in the warehouse. "Do people have arch-enemies?"

Sherlock looked at me suspiciously with narrowed eyes. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No." I thought that was the answer he was looking for. At least, that would've been the logical answer.

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time." He was completely serious.

"Who is he?" I asked, not even wanting to bother to try and delve into the fact of why he would want me to do that.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now." His words were soft and I began to wonder if there was a deeper history there than he was letting on. Speaking louder, he said, "On my desk, the number."

I gave him a dark look but Sherlock had already looked away again so I just walked over to the desk and picked up a piece of paper taken from a luggage label. I looked at the name on the paper.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was ... Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number." I frowned, shaking my head, but did as I was told. "Are you doing it?" He sounded quite impatient and, dare I say, almost excited.

"Yes." Count to ten, Anna. Count to ten.

"Have you done it?"

"Ye... hang on! God, give me a minute!"

"These words exactly: "What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out." I started to type but looked briefly across to Sherlock, slightly concerned about what he was having my write. Who was he talking to? "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come."

"You blacked out?" When had that happened?

"What? No. No!" Sherlock flipped his legs around and stood up, taking the shortest route towards the kitchen – which was walking over the coffee table beside the sofa rather than around it. "Type and send it. Quickly."

Going into the kitchen, he picked up a small pink suitcase from a chair and brought it back into the living room. Walking over to the dining table, he lifted one of the dining chairs and flipped it around, setting it down in front of one of the two armchairs near the fireplace. He put the suitcase onto the dining chair and sat down in the armchair. I was sending the message when he opened his mouth again.

"Have you sent it?"

I put my phone away, deciding not to answer. I turned around as Sherlock unzipped the case and flipped open the lid, revealing the contents. There were a few items of clothing and underwear – all in varying shades of pink – a wash bag, and a paperback novel by Paul Bunch entitled "Come To Bed Eyes". I flushed - Paul Bunch wrote some pretty lewd books. As I turned towards the case I staggered slightly in shock as I realize exactly what I'm looking at.

"That's ... that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case!" Where on Earth did he get that?

"Yes, obviously." I continued to stare, waiting for him to tell me how he came across her case. Sherlock looked up at me and then rolled his eyes. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her." His voice was heavily sarcastic.

"I never said you did." I sat down beside him, pawing through her suitcase. Maybe there were more clues inside... Credit cards, maybe? An address book?

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact I that have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption." He peered at me closely, trying to see through any lies I might have been about to tell.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" I asked curiously, quietly, turning my gaze from the mound of pink to look at him. He smirked suddenly and I couldn't help but note how attractive he was in an unconventional kind of way. I suddenly realized I'd been thinking that a lot recently and shoved that thought to the back of my mind.

"Now and then, yes." He put his hands onto the arms of the armchair and lifted his feet up and under him so that he was perching on the back of the chair, watching me as I looked through the credit cards in her billfold. "Sometimes I think you're purposely trying to scare me away," I said humorously, smiling to myself. When Sherlock was silent, I looked at him again. His gaze was questioning. I grinned. "It's not working."

A new light came into his eyes. It wasn't attraction, bewilderment, boredom, or even shock. It was intrigue. "Good to know."

Sherlock and I were walking down the street, heading to God knows where. I walked slightly behind him, staring at his back. Sherlock was a tall man with an imposing figure. It was as if he was trying to take in every image around him, commit it to memory. Did he ever stop? Every time I looked at him, his eyes were flickering between images in front of him. It was like he viewed the world in an entirely different perspective, saw things that I didn't. It was fascinating and extremely interesting.

Finally, I broke the silence. "Where are we going?"

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to actually go there?" I sped up to walk beside him so I could see his face, two of my steps matching one of his long-legged strides.

Sherlock smiled then, a rather pleasant one, too. "No – I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why's that?" I asked curiously. If you're going to commit a crime, why bother trying to get caught?

"Appreciation!" Sherlock said brightly. "Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Anna: it needs an audience."

I glanced at Sherlock, seeing much of his last words in him. Sherlock was a show-off. That much was obvious. But more than that, he needed people to appreciate what he did. When I voiced my genuine approval of his brilliance, he seemed to become more animated afterwards, almost as if he secretly thrived on approval. Would he still be the same man if there was no one to appreciate the genius of Sherlock Holmes? Would Sergeant Donovan be right someday? If he was bored enough, secluded enough, would he really create a murder that only he could solve, just to gain back the appreciation, to know that someone out there relied on him and could only do something, like solve a murder, with his help. Was that what I was? An ego boost whenever he needed it?

Sherlock spun around to indicate the entire area around us as we continued down the road. He looked elated. "This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go." He held his hand up to the side of his face, almost as if it would concentrate his thoughts. What was that character from that comic? Professor Xavier? It was like that character, trying to focus his thoughts. Except Sherlock couldn't read minds. But, then again, that would explain a lot of things if he could read minds.

"Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

I thought about it, scanning the area around me. Everyone was busy, moving from place to place in a rush as always. Car lights lit the streets as they passed. Shop owners began to close down for the night. Who, then? I wanted to show Sherlock that I wasn't as stupid as he seemed to think I was, but I really couldn't answer his question. "I'm not sure. Who?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" Lowering his hands, he lead me onwards and into a small restaurant. The waiter near the door clearly knew Sherlock. As soon as we stepped in, he perked up and quickly ushered us to off to a quiet, secluded table by the window.

"Thank you, Billy." Sherlock said as he removed his coat and sat down on the bench seat, immediately turning so he could see out the window. The waiter, Billy, took away the 'Reserved' sign as I sat down opposite Sherlock and removed my red leather jacket.

Sherlock nodded towards a building across the road. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad," I said as I adjusted myself to look out the window.

"He has killed four people," Sherlock pointed out grimly.

"Okay," I said slowly. "Do you think every serial killer is crazy?"

The owner of the restaurant came over before Sherlock could answer me, beaming brightly. He obviously knew Sherlock and was very pleased to see him.

"Sherlock," said the man happily, shaking Sherlock's hand. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." He laid a couple of menus on the table. "On the house, for you and for your date."

I blinked. Date?

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked, once more ignoring the implication that we were in a relationship.

"I'm not his date," I explained to the man. Why did everyone think we were a couple?

"This man got me off a murder charge," said our waiter in a jovial tone. Was he ignoring me? Why did everyone ignore me when I explained Sherlock and I weren't together?

"This is Angelo," Sherlock said off-handedly, his eyes flickering to me for a moment before looking back out at the street.

Angelo took my hand and kissed the back of it. I may have usually been offended, but there was something nice about him, so I let it slide.

"Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking." Oh. Maybe not so nice. Sherlock caught my gaze and I think he almost smiled.

"He cleared my name." Angelo said as he rubbed his hands with the towel tucked into his apron.

"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?" Sherlock asked lightly.

"Nothing. But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic." Angelo said charmingly. The way he could continue talking to Sherlock is such a happy way when he was being so flippant was a little surprising.

I frowned and called after him indignantly, "I'm not his date!"

Sherlock put down his menu after blandly looking through the pages.

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait." Did he seriously not care that people thought we were dating?

Angelo came back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light. He put it on the table and gave me a thumbs-up before turning and walking away again.

"Thanks," I muttered. I looked up at Sherlock again. "Do you really not care? First Mrs. Hudson, then that weird man in the empty garage, and now our waiter?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I felt a twitch form in my jaw.

"They all think we're dating, Sherlock. Doesn't that bother you at all?"

"Am I such terrible company that you don't want to have others entertain the idea of us being together?"

"No, of course not," I said with a frown.

"Do you feel the need to be right all of the time?" Sherlock asked, looking straight into my eyes.

"No, I don't."

"Then I see no reason for you to want to constantly correct them," Sherlock said easily, looking back at the streets. "Let the small people who don't have anything better to spend their thoughts on worrying over what our relationship is."

Even though it was a roundabout compliment, I felt myself smile. "Are you saying I'm not a small person?"

Sherlock glanced at me. "Of course you're a small person. Look at the size of you - you barely reach my shoulder."

I pursed my lips, reminding myself that Sherlock himself was a very literal person.

Later, my food arrived and I began to eat. I would occasionally look up at Sherlock who had yet to look from the street. He quietly drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes flickering around the lights on the street.

I remembered something from earlier and frowned. "People don't have archenemies."

It took him a minute, but Sherlock realized I had spoken and turned to look at me. "I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

Sherlock lost interest and looked out the window again. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet, then?" I asked

Sherlock responded with another question. "What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?"

"Friends," I said easily, trying to ignore Sherlock's soft scoff. "people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull." I looked at him peculiarly. Did he really not have anyone close to him at all?

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" I found that a little odd, at least – yes, Sherlock was a sarcastic twit who seemed to enjoy being smarter and better than everyone else, but some girls really like rude guys. And there was no denying that Sherlock was extremely handsome in a cold, strange way.

Sherlock didn't even look up from the window, displaying how utterly bored he was with the question. "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Mm," I hummed in response, continuing eating my food. A second later, I thought about his words again. Not his area? It suddenly dawned on me and I felt my cheeks flush in embarrassment. Right. Him being so pretty made a lot of sense, then.

"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?" I asked, hoping to keep some semblance of the conversation going. Sherlock suddenly turned on me sharply and I almost winced. "Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine." Sherlock said, staring at me oddly.

I smiled, trying to show him that I hadn't meant anything to sound offensive at all. "So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No." Sherlock said firmly, as though he was trying to stamp several ideas out of my head at once.

I continued smiling, unsure of what else to do. "Right. You're unattached. Like me." I looked down at my half-eaten food, feeling my cheeks flush again. I had no idea what else to say. I felt confused and as though I'd offended him somehow. "Right. Good." I awkwardly let the conversation die, unsure how to keep it going when he simply shut down any topic I tried to broach.

I was surprised when I heard Sherlock begin speaking in a slightly hesitant, faltering tone. "Anna, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any..."

By the time I'd interrupted him, he was very nearly babbling. "No. No, I'm not asking. No." I stared hard at Sherlock, hoping to show him that I had no intention of pursuing him. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

Sherlock stared at me for a moment longer before nodding. "Good. Thank you."

He turned his attention back to the street. I looked away with an bemused expression on my face. Sherlock was definitely a very strange person. Just then, Sherlock nodded out of the window.

"Look across the street. Taxi." His pale eyes were trained across the street.

I twisted around in my seat to look out of the window where a taxi had parked at the side of the road. It was facing away from the restaurant, lights still on.

"Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out." His eyes suddenly began to hold a light of excitement.

Through the back window, I could see the passenger looking through the side windows as if looking for someone or something.

Sherlock began to speak to himself quietly, something I was almost rapidly growing used to. "Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him?" I asked, just to be sure, peering harder out the window to try and discern anything about the man.

"Don't stare," Sherlock said, though his continued to.

I frowned. "You're staring."

"We can't both stare." Sherlock said in a monotone voice.

"Why do you get to stare?"

"I'm the detective."

Getting to his feet, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and headed for the door. I scrambled for my own jacket and followed. Outside the door, Sherlock shrugged himself into his coat while keeping his eyes fixed on the taxi. The passenger continued to look around him, then turned and looks out the back window. His gaze fell on the restaurant and he looked at it for a few moments while Sherlock stared back at him. It felt like a stand off. The man turned towards the front of the vehicle and the taxi began to pull away from the side of the road.

Sherlock immediately headed towards it without stopping to check the road. I yelped and surged after him naturally, trying to grab a fistful of his coat. I missed and Sherlock was almost run over by a car coming from his left. The driver slammed on the brakes and stopped the car but Sherlock, rolled over the bonnet, landed on his feet on the other side, and then ran after the taxi. As the driver of the car angrily blared his horn, I broke myself out of my stunned daze, put one hand on the bonnet and vaulted myself over the front of the car, apologizing to the driver quickly when I was on the other side. "Sorry!"

I chased after Sherlock, who ran a few yards up the road before realizing that he was not going to catch the taxi and slowed to a halt. I caught up and stopped beside him.

"I've got the cab number," I said, trying to be helpful.

"Good for you," Sherlock said casually. I glared up at him in shock, catching my breath.

Sherlock brought his hands up to either side of his head and shut his eyes. I stared at him, confused as he would occasionally wince or his eyes would twitch. Beneath the eyelids, Sherlock's eyes were flying left, right, up, and down, as thought he were dreaming a vivid dream.

He lifted his head and looked across the street. Following his line of sight, I saw a man unlocking the door to a nearby building. Sherlock raced towards the man and grabbed him, shoving him out of the way before charging into the building.

I hurried after Sherlock, raising an apologetic hand to the man as I passed him, who shouted angrily after us. "Sorry!"

The two of us raced up the stairs and out onto a metal spiral fire escape staircase leading to the roof. Sherlock, the lanky git, took the steps two or even three at a time and I struggled to keep up with him as I scurried up behind him.

"Come on, Anna," Sherlock called from above me, pausing for only a second to make sure I was still behind him.

When we reached the top of the stairs, we ran to the edge and looked over. Below us was a shorter metal spiral staircase that lead down the side of the building to another door one floor lower. Sherlock flew down the stairs and climbed onto the railing before he leapt across the gap to the next building. Once again, I scrambled after him, climbing onto the railing and following. Sherlock ran across to the other side of the roof and again leapt across to the next building.

I raced after him, but then I skidded to a halt as I realized that the gap may be too big for me to jump in good shape from working out and going on runs, but I was still shorter than Sherlock, who was at least six feet tall. Would my legs be able to carry me as far as him? As if in sympathy, I noticed pedestrian traffic lights on the ground change from the green "It is safe to cross" sign to the red "Stop and wait" sign. I hesitated, looking down at the drop beneath me. It was a long way down. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest like a drum, ringing in my ears and drowning out the noise below me.

"Come on, Anna," Sherlock called to me, stopping and looking back at me. "We're losing him!"

I backed up a few paces and braced myself, trying not to think about those cartoons where the character splats onto the ground, flat like a pancake. As the traffic lights change to "Safe to cross" again, I take a run-up and leapt the gap. Dropping down onto a walkway along the side of the building, we run onwards as if nothing spectacular just happened.

As the taxi continued its journey on the ground, we gallop down another metal staircase, then run to a ledge and drop down into an alleyway before running onwards again. Maybe it was the adrenaline that burned in my muscles that prevented me from stopping. Maybe it was the need to prove myself to Sherlock. Either way, I didn't feel tired at all, even though I'd been running very hard for a good five minutes. Sherlock lead me down the alleyway and we exited onto D'Arblay Street, which the taxi was just turning into. I was very surprised. How had Sherlock managed to know where the taxi was going to perfectly? Sherlock turned the corner and raced down the last part of the alley, only to see the taxi drive past the end, heading to the left.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock growled angrily. Without breaking stride, he raced out of the end of the alley and turned right.

"This way," Sherlock called to me.

Instinctively, I turned left in the direction of the taxi.

"No, this way!" Sherlock said, grabbing my arm and dragging me along behind him.

"Sorry," I called to him.

We ran down the street and head down more alleyways and side streets towards the interception point on Wardour Street and finally, when we both saw the correct cab, Sherlock raced out of a side street and hurled himself into the path of the approaching cab, which screeched to a halt as he crashed hard onto the bonnet, sliding off the side. Scrabbling in his left coat pocket, Sherlock pulled out an I.D. badge and flashed it at the driver as he ran to the right hand side of the cab. Gaping at the audacity of him, I followed. What sane person throws themselves in front of a movie taxi?

"Police! Open her up!" Sherlock said authoritatively, and maybe a little excited.

Panting heavily, Sherlock tugged open the rear door and stared in at the passenger. Instantly Sherlock straightened up in exasperation just as I joined him.

"No," Sherlock groaned, staring up at the sky for a moment. "He leaned down again to look at the passenger a second time. I did as well. An anxious looking man stared back at us.

"Teeth, tan: what – Californian?" Sherlock rattled off, looking around the inside of the cab. He looked at something on the floor in front of the passenger. "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived." He straightened up again, grimacing.

"How can you possibly know that?" I wheezed, bracing my hands on my knees as my fatigue finally caught up with me now that I'd stopped running.

"The luggage," Sherlock said, idly gesturing within the taxi.

I looked down at the suitcase on the floor of the cab and its luggage label showing that the man had flown from LAX to LHR.

Sherlock looked in at the passenger again. "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

The man nervously licked his lips before speaking, his American accent very identifiable. "Sorry – are you guys the police?"

"Yeah," Sherlock said. He flashed the I.D. badge briefly at the man. "Everything all right?"

The man smiled. "Yeah."

Sherlock paused for a moment as if wondering how to finish the conversation, then smiled falsely at the man. "Welcome to London." He immediately walked away, leaving me staring blankly for a moment before I stepped closer to the taxi door and looked in at the American.

"Er, any problems, just let us know." As the man nodded, I smiled politely and slammed the cab door shut. The man looked round to the taxi driver in bewilderment. I walked to where Sherlock had stopped a few yards behind the vehicle.

I have to admit that I stared up at him, slightly smug and very tired. "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down."

"Basically." Sherlock muttered.

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer, no." Sherlock said, exasperation growing at my continued questions.

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go," Sherlock said, hoping to stop the conversation of his failure.

I noticed the Sherlock switched the I.D. card from one hand to another. "Hey, where-where did you get this?" I reached a hand out to it. "Here." He released it to me easily. I looked at the name on the card and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

I nodded, then looked down at the card again before lifting my head and giggling silently. "What?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Nothing, just; "Welcome to London"." I looked up at him, grinning.

Sherlock chuckled, then looked down the road to where a police officer had apparently gone to investigate why the cab had stopped in the middle of the road. The passenger had got out and was pointing down the road towards Sherlock and I.

Sherlock looked down at me. "Got your breath back?"

"Ready when you are."

Back at 221B, we walked along the hallway, breathing heavily. I hung my jacket on a hook on the wall while Sherlock draped his coat over the bottom of the bannisters. Both of us breathing heavily, we looked at each other and began to laugh immediately.

"Okay, that was ridiculous," I said, leaning against the wall and placing a hand on my stomach, which was twitching in pain. Sherlock joined me, also trying to fully catch his breath. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock said seriously.

I felt a traitorous giggle bubble past my lips. After a moment Sherlock also began to laugh.

"That wasn't just me," I pointed out, grinning up at Sherlock. He chuckled, staring at me curiously for a moment before glancing at the door. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

Sherlock slowly became more serious, waving his hand dismissively at my question. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So why were we there then?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Oh, just passing the time." He looked at me again. "And proving a point."

"What point?" I asked, confused.

Sherlock smiled a bit. "You." He turned and called loudly towards the door to Mrs Hudson's flat. "Mrs. Hudson! Ms. Watson will take the room upstairs."

"Says who?" I crossed crossed my arms, retorting challengingly. I knew that I was taking the flat. Who in their right mind wouldn't take the flat with someone as interesting as Sherlock?

Sherlock looked at the front door. "Says the man at the door."

I looked at the door just as someone knocked on it three times. I turned back to look at Sherlock in surprise. He smiled. I stared at him for a moment, then walked along the hall to answer the door. Sherlock leaned his head against the wall and blew out a breath. I opened the door and found Angelo standing outside.

"Sherlock texted me," Smiling, he held up my walking cane. "He said you forgot this."

I was floored. I stared at the cane in his hand, realizing what I'd just done. I'd chased Sherlock halfway across London, leapt over building roofs, and sprinted up shaking metal staircases. I hadn't had the cane with me at all during that time. I turned and looked down the hall to Sherlock, who grinned at me. I felt a breathless laugh leave my lips as I looked at him, idly wondering if there was anything about me he didn't know yet.

Hey! Thanks so much for reading this, I'm having a great time writing it! I'm currently working through The Blind Banker (it's taking me such a long time _) and should have more posted soon. If you have any comments or constructive criticism, feel free to write me a review! Also, I don't have a beta-reader and I try to spellcheck and edit all of these by myself. Usually I do a pretty good job, but sometimes I'll miss things. If you notice anything, please send me a review about it and I'll try and fix it as soon as possible!

Thanks for reading!