As Sherlock and the masked figure continue to roll around on the floor, John makes a feeble attempt to intervene. Well, I'm sure he considered it a rather heroic act but, come on, look at the size of him. Evidently, this act of gallantry sends John flying across the room like a rag doll. A little, cute hedgehoggy ragdoll with – Hold on a sec, I look around me, Where the bloody hell is Sarah?

I turn to catch sight of her long, blonde hair before she disappears amongst the crowd.

'Oh for the love of-!' I exclaim loudly, realising that it's now up to me to save the day. Grabbing the stick that the silly bitch should have used, I charge at the knife-wielding masked figure pinning Sherlock down.

'Hey! Over here you big horses ass!' The figure turns to face me and – BOOM – I whack him with the wooden pole. He falls to the floor, out cold.

I toss my hair, feeling invincible. And perhaps a bit light-headed.

Sherlock pushes me aside and grabs the man's right ankle, pulling off his shoe to reveal a Tong tattoo.

He jumps to his feet and sprints towards the exit. 'Come on, let's go!'

John helps me up and gives me a 'sorry-I-know-he's-an-ignoramus' look. We proceed to chase after said ignoramus.

'John...' I wheeze in between breaths, 'you should know that I reached my peak physical strength at seventeen and it's just gone downhill from there.' John glances back at me. 'Not too sure where you're going with this Audrey.'

'I'm...saying that...I am...incredibly...oh sweet Jesus.' I double over as a cramp pierces my side. '...Unfit.'

John stops running and waits for me to catch up, taking my arm with a bemused expression.

'You're awfully precious, aren't you?'

'I resent that statement.' I huff angrily as he pulls me into a slow jog.

221B

'They'll be back in China by tomorrow.' John says to Sherlock, as he pulls Catsby onto his lap and begins tickling his ears.

'No, they won't leave without what they came for. We need to find their hide-out; the rendezvous.' Sherlock is seated at his desk, an array of photos, drawings and notes littering it.

All this time I'm silent, pondering the almighty mess I'm in. I mean, don't get me wrong; I'm living the ultimate fan's dream. But, am I going a bit..mad?

I bring my fingers to my temple, massaging away the beginnings of a headache .

How is it possible that I can read myself into books? The answer is; it's not. And if I can read myself in, can I read something or someone else out?

My thoughts are interrupted by 'Argh!' followed by a thump and an 'Ow!' as Sherlock flings a book behind him in outrage, hitting John on the head. I sigh. Well, someone's got to do it..

I walk towards Sherlock and lean down over his shoulder, pointing to a photo of the brick wall with the ciphers painted on.

'The numbers are a cipher. Each pair of numbers is a word. Soo Lin had begun translating them.' I tell him and pat his curls. 'You're welcome.'

He looks at me in shock before jumping up and grabbing his scarf.

'Oh, we must have been staring right at it!'

'At-at what?' John asks, confused.

'The book, John. The book – the key to cracking the cipher!' He brandishes the photo at John.

'Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk.'

And then he's gone, hurrying out the door.

'Look at him, nearly wetting himself with excitement.' I sigh, watching him run down the street.

John chuckles at this, walking towards the stairs.

'Where are you going?'

'To close the door,' John calls up, 'He always leaves it open.'

I scoop Catsby up into my arms, giving him a squeeze. He responds by swatting my cheek with his dumpy little paw.

'Hey now, don't be mea – ' I freeze, realisation slowly dawning.

Bollocks.

I drop Catsby and race down the stairs, arriving just in time to see the intruder clobber John around the head with a pistol.

Merde.

I turn to scramble back up the stairs but the man grabs my ankle, pulling me back. I attempt to fight back, though that's easier said than done when one decides to wear a classic, below-the-knee length 50's skirt and it bloody well just gets in the way. With one swift movement, the man hits me across the head.

When I regain consciousness, I'm sitting on a chair somewhere dark, wrists bound together with rope. A fire is burning in a dustbin behind me. I slowly raise my head, wincing as the bleeding cut on my temple smarts.

'A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket.' A voice says. I look up and see the same woman at the escapology show, though she is not dressed in her oriental costume. John is sitting on a chair to my right, wrists also bound.

'Chinese proverb, Mr Holmes.' The woman says to John.

John looks at her, startled. 'I..I'm not Sherlock Holmes.'

'Forgive me if I do not take your word for it.' She laughs humourlessly. She reaches down and pulls his wallet from his coat pocket. 'Debit card, Mr. S Holmes.'

'Yes; that's not actually mine. He lent it to me.' John tries to explain.

As John continues to explain the accusations, I search my memory for how this plays itself out. Okay, so just as John shouts "I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" Sherlock should appear and save the day. Okay, calm down, it'll be fine.

I look up abruptly as I hear the 'click' from the empty bullet. John's shaking, glancing at me with terrified eyes.

'Oi, General Shan. Leave Mulan alone, he's telling the truth.' I shout over at her.

She looks at me in surprise. 'Let's make a deal, shall we?' She looks back at John. 'Everything has a price in the West; and the price for her life is..' She walks towards me. '..information.' She looks at her men, one of whom now pulls the cover off the large object to reveal the crossbow which was used at the circus. An arrow is already loaded in it.

I gulp. Oh shit.

John looks at me, horrified. 'No, no please, you've got to listen to me!'

Shan ignores him, advancing on me. She clicks her finger and points. Seconds later two men are at my side, lifting my chair over in front of the crossbow. Shan turns back to John.

'Where's the hairpin?'

'I..what hairpin?' John tugs at his bonds.

'I need a volunteer for the audience!' Shan exclaims. 'Ah, thank you, lady. Yes, you'll do very nicely.' She walks towards me.

'Please. Please, listen to me. I'm not ... I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me. I haven't found whatever it is you're looking for!' John cries out, panicked.

Shan reaches up and slits the sandbag. I watch as the grains fall out, each single one determining whether I live or die.

'Ladies and gentlemen.' She begins. 'From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes' pretty companion in a death-defying act.'

'No, no…please, listen to me!'

Shan laughs, placing a black orchid in my lap.

'Would you bloody listen to him! He's not Sherlock Holmes!' I finally cry out.

Shan observes me coldly. 'I don't believe you.' I begin to panic.

'You really should, you know.' Sherlock's voice echoes in the tunnel. I breathe out a sigh of relief.

'Took your sweet time, didn't you?' I shout back at him.

'I wouldn't be making those remarks if I were you Audrey. I'm not the one sitting opposite the crossbow.' He replies nonchalantly.

'How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?' He clicks the "c" on the last word.

'Late.' We both shout at him.

'That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second.' Sherlock remarks form the darkness.

'Well?' Shan asks, pointing the pistol.

'Well ...' Sherlock continues, darting out of the shadows to whack one of the men with a metal pole. The man grunts and falls to the ground.

'... the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you.' He bursts out of the darkness and runs to the nearby burning dustbin, kicking it over and extinguishing the light. Shan squints into the blackness, trying to find him.

I flinch as a hand rests on my shoulder. 'Shh, it's me.' Sherlock whispers and begins undoing the rope around my wrists.

'No, Sherlock, watch out – ' I try to warn him, but the scarf is already wrapped around his neck, dragging him to the ground. As the men continue to struggle, I see John attempting to stand. This is an almost impossible feat, with his hands tied in front of him and attached tightly to the underside of the chair, and his ankles tied to the legs of the chair. Nevertheless he manages to stumble forward a couple of paces, half-carrying and half-dragging the chair with him, before he loses his balance and falls onto his side. I stretch my neck around to see that man is right behind me, his back turned to me as he continues to strangle a kneeling Sherlock.

'Oh screw this.' I mutter under my breath. 'Sherlock, keep him there!' I shout and look back at the sandbag, counting down.

'Three, two, one –' Just before the last second I throw all my weight over to one side, knocking myself and the chair over. The arrow zooms over my head and implants itself in the attacker's back with a soft thud.

John and Sherlock look at me in surprise. 'Once again, YOU'RE WELCOME.' I shout. 'Can someone please untie me? I'm getting rope burn.' I hear Sherlock chuckling as he works at the knot binding my wrists.

In the taxi home, a thought occurs to me. 'You guys, where am I going to stay? I have nothing, no clothes, no money.'

'Well, you'll stay with us then.' John looks down at me, smiling.

'Uh, John, I don't think you've thought this through.' Sherlock frowns. 'First of all, where is she going to sleep? And I don't know about you, but I don't tend to keep spare pairs of women's knickers in my closet.'

John rolls his eyes and sighs. I giggle cos Sherlock said 'knickers'.

I stop and think. 'Hang on, what if I could read clothes out?'

'I'm sure you'll find something in here worth finding.' Sherlock walks over to me with a book in hand. I look at it. 'Breakfast in Tiffany's' by Truman Capote.

I smirk and look up at him. 'Why would you have this?' Sherlock ignores the question.

'Well, go on then.' He says impatiently.

I leaf through the book, looking for something small, easy…Ah. Gotcha. I clear my throat and begin reading;

The instant she saw the letter she squinted her eyes and bent her lips in a tough tiny smile that advanced her age immeasurably.

I stop reading and glance around. I could hear whispers, sort of…echoing the words. I see Sherlock watching me intently. Shaking my head, I continue;

"Darling," she instructed me, "would you reach in the drawer there and give me my purse. A girl doesn't read this sort of thing without her lipstick."

A soft clatter turns all our attention to the kitchen. There, laying on the table, is a small, black cylindrical object. I walk over and take the lipstick in my hands, staring at John and Sherlock in astonishment.

'So it's true.' Sherlock breathes, utterly flabbergasted for once in his life.

One hour and five books later, I have acquired quite the collection of outfits, ranging from 1920s flapper costumes to Dorothy's red slippers.

'Sherlock,' I call over to him form the book shelf. 'Do you have any, you know, modern books?' He raises an eyebrow. 'Don't get me wrong, I love all the classics, but I can't exactly leave the house looking like Daisy Buchanan or Anne of Green Gables every day, now can I?'

'I'll get John to go buy some…magazines tomorrow.' He sniffs distastefully. 'I'm sure you'll find something up to your standards.'

I stare at him, gobsmacked, like he's the second coming of Christ or something. 'You beautiful genius. You simply ingenious man. Why didn't I think of that?' If I didn't know any better, I'd say Sherlock was getting quite…flustered.

'Yes alright.' He snaps. 'Don't embarrass yourself.'

I sigh and make a mental note to not take Sherlock's mood swings too personally. After all, God knows how long I'll have to put up with them. Clearing my throat I attempt to make conversation again.

'Hey, Sherlock?'

'Hmm?' He replies, not looking up from his book.

'Uh... are you using your bed tonight?' I ask awkwardly. He looks up now.

'What day is it?'

'Thursday.' I reply

'No, you can have it tonight.'

'Are you sure? I don't mind sharing.' I say and blush, realising how forward that sounds. 'No, not like that. I mean in a two-friends-chillin-on-a-bed sort of way.'

'No, but thank you.' Sherlock seems unaffected by my words.

I lift a sleepy Catsby into my arms and make my way to Sherlock's bedroom. His room, unlike the living area and kitchen, is spotlessly clean. The bed doesn't even look like it's been slept in.

'No cat in the bed!' I hear Sherlock call to me.

'Kay.' I shout back, tucking Catsby under the covers and snuggling in beside him. I drift off almost immediately...

'Audrey…Audrey.' I feel a gentle prod on my shoulder.

'Wha-' I wake up, startled.

'Shh, it's just me.' Sherlock sits down on the bed beside me as I prop myself up.

He remains silent, just looking at me. 'So…can I help you?' I ask, breaking the silence.

He leans in, face inches away from mine. 'Tell me.' He says. 'Tell me how it ends; how we end.'

I breathe in and study him. No way am I telling him. No way. It'll destroy them both.

'Sherlock,' I say softly, 'We're not meant to know how our lives end. When it's time to go, we go.'

'I know, but you can tell me.' He replies urgently.

Oh god. Your best poker face Aud, your very best!

'Sherlock, I told you, I haven't read that far.' He narrows his eyes. 'You're lying.'

Shit. He really is too observant for his own good.

He grabs my wrists tightly, eyes flashing. 'I need to know, Audrey. Or else I'll go mad.' I wince and twist my hands in his, a sensation not far off fear settling at the bottom of my stomach.

'Sherlock, let go. You're hurting me.' I whisper.

The fire in his eyes instantly diminishes, and he releases my hands. He sighs and stands up to leave.

'Goodnight, Audrey.'

Soooo there you go, chapter 3. Please please PLEASE leave a comment or constructive criticism! This is my first proper story so I'm still quite new to this. Thank you Writers and Readers for your lovely review, it made me very happy!