The journey home was unbearably silent. I had refused point blank to explain my bizarre outburst in St. Barts, stating simply that sometimes I have an insuppressible need to parler français. Sherlock had snorted at this and told me I needed my head examined, to which I graciously responded with a swift elbow in the ribs. I lean back against the soft leather seat, trying to steady the erratic thumping in my chest. Now is not the best time to have a nervy b, Aud. I thought I had gained some control over the panic attacks throughout the past years. But every so often the fear would resurface again like a sleeping dragon, reminding me that it was always there.

It's not so much fear that I'm feeling right now, more so a sort of … regret and bitterness. How had I allowed myself to become so feeble? I had known what was coming, how that scene would play out. Yet in my arrogance, I had almost altered the entire storyline.

Yep. I walked myself straight into the firing line.

'…They weren't there. I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important.' I shake out of the reverie and turn my attention back to Sherlock and John. 'He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes …' Sherlock leans down and plucks Carl Powers' trainers from the bag. '… until now.'

John's phone dings a text as he's preparing a sandwich. 'Audrey, can you check that for me please?' He calls over his shoulder. I grab the phone, scrolling through the message. 'It's from Mycroft. He wants to know if there's been anything more on the missile plans.' John pauses and looks up, frowning.

'Hang on a minute, how does Mycroft have my number?'

'Shall I reply?' I ask, already typing out a message. 'Sure, tell him Sherlock is – '

' – Putting my best man onto right now.' Sherlock interrupts from the sitting room.

'Sherlock's sending John over. He's … "busy". Lol your brother's such a ponce.

No offence.

Take it easy on those molars, root canal's a bitch.

AD.'

I smirk at my ingenious wit. Oh the cleverness of me. 'John, be a doll and buy some milk on the way to Mycrofts, there's a viscous yellowy substance emanating from this carton.' I wrinkle my nose at the offending milk bottle.

'Who says I'm going to Mycrofts?' John looks from me to Sherlock.

'Sherlock.' I reply simply.

'No I didn't.' I hear Sherlock saying from beneath the microscope.

'Well, not yet you haven't.' I roll my eyes. 'But John is your "best man". Congrats,' I say to him. 'You've got a case.' John opens his mouth to speak but Sherlock gets there first.

'Actually, I was talking about you, Audrey.' I hear the smirk in his voice. 'You can go to Mycroft.'

Oh he knows what he's doing. He's said that just to annoy me. The little shit.

'That is bullshit, Sherlock Holmes.' I say, glowering at him. 'You've literally just changed your mind to look cooler than me.' I toss my hair and flounce from the kitchen in a stunningly accurate Fleur Delacour fashion.

'An arduous feat, no doubt.' Sherlock sighs. 'He seems to like you; maybe because you're small, I don't really know.' I snort at this. 'But you know this case as well as I do. Better, in fact.' His expression darkens.

'Fine. But if I'm going so is Catsby.' I cross my arms defiantly. John chuckles at this but Sherlock raises his head, narrowing his eyes. 'Audrey, you are not bringing your cat into the Diogenes Club.'

'Well I'm certainly not leaving him here with you and your experiments!' I spy a fluffy cream tail behind the curtains. 'And look, he's gone into hiding already!' I complain, trying to coax the fur ball out.

'Audrey, I'm being very serious. You are not bringing that angry creature to a place where coughing can result in immediate exclusion.' Sherlock warns me.

'N'écoute pas, mon cher. Il est con.' I whisper to Catsby, who lifts his head and gingerly sniffs my hand. He seems to respond to my insulting Sherlock. The little cherub.

'Oh, there she goes in French again.' Sherlock mutters.

I glare at him. 'Il est une pomme de terre avec le visage d'un cochon d'inde.' Catsby swishes his tail and sits up. 'Il a le corps d'un chien et le QI d'une durée de cinq ans!' The fat Persian cat stretches and crawls onto my lap.

'You know, I can understand you.' Sherlock remarks behind us.

'Good.' I sniff and gather Catsby up to cradle him in my arms.

Fifteen minutes and two scratched arms later (10 points to whoever guesses who the arms belong to), I find myself standing outside a rather large, white Georgian building. Tucking Catsby securely under my arm, I tap my knuckles three times against the black door. A stuffy looking elderly man kitted out in the full suit and tailcoat opens the door and proceeds to stare at me.

'Ahem..' I cough, clearing my throat. 'Hi. I'm Audrey Dubois, I'm here to see Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock sent me.'

Jeeves (I've decided he looks like a Jeeves. Or maybe a Carson) continues to stare at Catsby in disbelief. 'Oh don't worry,' I laugh, waving my hand. 'Mycroft knows I'm bringing Catsby.' Jeeves/Carson reluctantly steps back and allows me inside. 'This way, Miss Dubois.' He sniffs haughtily. I follow Jeeves/Carson down a wide corridor, the walls lined with portraits of Stephen Fry look-a-likes. We enter a narrow at the end of the corridor. Mycroft sits at the mahogany desk in centre of the room.

'Ah, Audrey.' Mycroft looks up from the multitude of letters and documents splayed across his desk. 'Yes, Sherlock mentioned he'd be sending you.' His gaze trails down to my arms. 'And … Catsby.' Mycroft stands, turning towards Jeeves/Carson and motions for me to take a seat. 'Thank you, Carson. That will be all.'

Carson! God I'm good. Boomtown: population Audrey.

Mycroft sits down again. 'Now, Audrey. How can I help you?'

I glance around the room, suddenly nervous under his scrutinizing gaze. 'Um, well, I was wanting to ... um, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans.'

'Did he?' Mycroft begins to smile but winces, placing his hand on his jaw.

'Er … Yep.' I state awkwardly. 'Root canal acting up?' I ask sympathetically. 'Do you want some Nurofen Plus?' I set Catsby down and begin rooting around my handbag. 'I always have a packet in case I get perio – uh… headaches.' Wow, smooth save Aud.

Mycroft's eyes soften at this. 'No, no. Thank you, though.'

I smile and clear my throat. 'Um, I just wondered what else you can tell me about Westie.'

'Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies... Wait, how did you know his name was Westie?' Mycroft frowns at this.

Shit. 'Uh… Sherlock, he um… he told me.' I finish lamely.

Mycroft just smiles, not believing a word of it. 'Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.'

'Right.' I tap my fingers against the wood, trying to remember any detail of the case from the book. 'He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train.'

'No. He had an Oyster card ...' Grimacing, Mycroft raises his hand to his mouth again. '... but it hadn't been used.'

'Must have bought a ticket.' I remark.

'There was no ticket on the body.' Mycroft explains, lowering his hand.

'Then ...' I trail off, copying John in the book.

'Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?' Mycroft finishes for me. 'That is the question – the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How is my dear brother getting on?'

'He-he's fine, yes. Oh, and-and it is going ... very well. It's, um, you know – he's completely focussed on it.' I lie my pants off.

'Hmm.' Mycroft nods and smiles tightly. 'And how are you finding 221B? Hellish, I imagine.'

I laugh, shaking my head. 'I'm never bored. It's different, yes. I come from a family of three girls; me, mum, dad and Ca –'Well, just me and dad now.' I swallow, and attempt to smile. 'Living with two men is… challenging.'

Mycroft's eyes widen at my slip-up. 'You certainly are somewhat of a mystery, Audrey. I can find no public records or family documents. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were running from something.' He raises and eyebrow, smiling. 'Or someone.' He adds.

Oh you might as well tell him, Aud.

'Well, um… I can tell you that I am half-French, on my mother's side. My full name is Audrey Thompson-Dubois, but I dropped my father's surname when he and mum got a divorce. Mum's legal custodian, but I live with dad in Ireland. I am twenty years old, and currently study French and Film in Kings College.' I glance up at Mycroft, who signals to continue.

'Um… I am a twin. W-well, I was.' I give up trying to steady my voice. 'Camille, she died. She.. well, she... took her own life.' I glance up. 'We were fifteen.' Mycroft, who had been looking down at his desk, tilts his head upwards. 'I'm sorry to hear that, Audrey. Truly.' He says quietly.

I take a deep breath, composing myself. 'Thank you. But.. Er, that's not everything.' I almost laugh before saying it. 'I er… read myself… into existence..' I sneak a look at Mycroft, who just looks at me.

'You… read yourself into existence?' He repeats.

'Yes, well you see, you don't actually exist.' I wait for him to laugh or say something but he does not. 'I have the ability to read myself into books. And, read people and objects out of books.' I add.

Mycroft rubs his jaw, but still says nothing.

'I find this works best when I can actually show you, rather than tell you…' I pull the indigo blue book from my handbag. The Catcher In The Rye flashes in gold text across the front cover. I locate the top right-hand corner I'd folded down and search the page for the quote. Clearing my throat, I begin to read:

"We went into the shoe department and we pretended she – old Phoebe – wanted to get a pair of those very high storm shoes, the kind that have about a million holes to lace up. We had the poor salesman guy going crazy. Old Phoebe tried on about twenty pairs, and each time the poor guy had to lace one shoe all the way up. It was a dirty trick, but it killed old Phoebe. We finally bought a pair of moccasins and charged them."

The room stops tilting and the whispering quietens. A dull thump brings our attention to a pair of soft, brown leather shoes sitting beside Catsby at the fireplace. He hisses at the intruders, skulking behind the armchair.

'Impossible.' Mycroft breathes, striding over to the moccasins and inspecting them.

'Impossible, yes.' I agree, packing my book away and standing up. 'But true.' I sling my bag over my shoulder and pull Catsby up into my arms. 'I trust my secret's safe with you, Mycroft?' I hold his gaze.

Mycroft looks up at me. 'You have nothing to worry about, Audrey.' He opens the door. 'Until next time.'

'Bye, Mycroft.' I smile.

'Clostridium botulinum!' I hear Sherlock shout as I walk through the door. Catsby squirms and jumps from my arms. 'Do you have a personal vendetta against my cat?' I burst out angrily, coaxing Catsby out from underneath the sofa.

He ignores me. 'It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!' John looks at Sherlock blankly. 'Carl Powers!'

'At a boy, I knew you'd get it soon.' I praise him and set about finding Catsby's dinner bowl.

'The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns.' Sherlock explains to John.

'Yeah, yeah whatever, have any of you guys seen Catsby's bowl? Everything else is… dirty.' I turn my nose up at the state of the kitchen.

Sherlock walks around the table to where his laptop is lying. 'Why do you need a clean bowl? He's a cat, he won't know the difference.' He scoffs.

'In that case, I'm sure you won't mind if I use your coffee cup then?'

'No!' He snatches the blue mug from my hands. 'It's the only clean cup and I don't want to wash the others.'

'Yeesh okay! Calm down Smeagol.' I roll my eyes at the ten year old in front of me. Sherlock continues to type.

FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989).

Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.

'Mrs Hudson? Hi it's Audrey's dad again, Mark Thompson.'

'Oh yes, hello! Are you going to help me?' Mrs Hudson asks excitedly.

'I'm going to try, yes. I need you to stay where you are, do not leave the house. I'm getting the early flight over Tuesday morning.'

'Oh well, I would have nowhere to go even if I did leave.' Mrs Hudson sighs and looks around the empty flat.

'Right well, yes. I need you search Audrey's flat for all of the Sherlock books. Can you do that for me?'

'Yes! Yes, I can. I've already found two in her bedroom – The uh… Blind Banker is one of them. I think.'

'Perfect. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.'

a/n: Chapter 6 done and dusted! Please pleeeease let me know what you guys think of it! Thank you to: rycbar15, SirOlives, Fishpuppy, cam.98, g0ldf1sh101, JennytheWicked, Haziebug, Rousdower and SaphireBlue78 for your kind reviews! I really appreciate them :)

French translations: 'N'écoute pas, mon cher. Il est con.' (Don't listen, my dearest. He's an idiot.)

'Il est une pomme de terre avec le visage d'un cochon d'inde.' (He is a potato with the face of a guinea pig)

'Il a le corps d'un chien et le QI d'une durée de cinq ans! (He has the body of a dog and an IQ of a five year old)

Charming, aren't they?

Until next time!