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'AUDREY'

'Jesus Christ!' I bolt upwards in bed, startled awake by the sudden bellowing. Sherlock leans against the wooden doorframe, inspecting his fingernails. 'What in the fucking fuck was that all about?'

'I tried knocking.' Sherlock replies, innocently shrugging his shoulders.

I stomp past him and into the bathroom. Violently squeezing an excessive amount of toothpaste onto my brush, I return to the bedroom to verbally attack him. 'Are you an almighty pain-in-the-arse on purpose, or do you practice it?'

'Just trying to be helpful.' Sherlock smirks.

Oh I see, he's still pissed off about yesterday.

'And you think depriving me of sleep is helpful?' I wave my toothbrush while saying this, spraying his dressing gown with little, white foamy flecks. He scowls at this, and takes a step backwards.

'I know you can't help the sudden, raging tantrums, given your current situation, but do try and suck it up.' He rolls his eyes. 'They're only cramps.'

At this point I'm frothing from the mouth. (No, not in a weird fit of rage/mental patient way. I'm not that crazy.) I raise a finger, motioning for him to wait. Popping back into the bathroom to spit the foaming toothpaste (which, quite frankly, had begun to become a slight choking hazard) into the sink, I round the corner and turn on him.

'What did you just say?.' I whisper dangerously.

'What, has your hearing been affected now? I sai –'

'Oh no Curly Q,' I cut across him. 'I heard you.'

'You know, the sooner you're finished this… womanly business, the better. The last thing I need is some teary, hormonal teenage girl getting in the way of this case.' He raises his arms in defence. 'I don't want to have to say this but, I feel I mu – What are you doing with the alarm clock?' He eyes widen with understanding and he swiftly ducks, arms covering his head, as the red clock smashes into the wall where, until a second ago, his head had rested.

'Jesus Audrey!' Sherlock slowly rises, staring at me in disbelief. 'That could have seriously injured me!' He tightens his dressing gown in an affronted manner, looking practically violated.

I shrug my shoulders. 'Yes well, that was kind of the point.'

He looks at me and narrows his eyes.

I look at him and blink.

He fixes a stray curl, smoothing it back.

I raise an eyebrow. Damn, that was hot.

'Well,' He begins with a little smile. 'When Dr Banner has returned to his normal state of being, kindly inform him that we shall be leaving the flat in approximately seventeen minutes.' And with that he flounces away, looking quite chuffed with himself.

'Oh, good one.' I shout after him. 'Really witty.'

'Bruce Banner…So I'm the Hulk now, am I? I'll show him the Hulk..' I mumble angrily, pulling my hair down from its bun. I throw the wardrobe doors open and inspect its contents. Then deciding I have no clothes, I slam it shut. But realising I only have ten minutes to get ready, I fling it open again. Grabbing a short, tartan dress, I pull it over my head. Pairing the outfit with maroon tights and black patent brogues, I step back to admire my handiwork.

'You know, with a little effort, I could rea-'

'AUDREY.' Sherlock hollers from the kitchen. 'Stop looking at your reflection!'

I huff and traipse out, dragging my feet long the ground as I do so, in hopes of marking the wooden floorboards. John is waiting at the door, holding it open like the proper little gentleman he is. Smiling, he turns towards me. 'You look lovely today, Audrey.' I glance down and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear in an 'aw-shucks' kind of way. 'Thanks John.' I reply sweetly.

'No wonder you were looking at your reflection.' He raises his voice, looking pointedly at Sherlock. 'Oh shut up.' He snaps at us.

'Jesus..' John mumbles as he passes the incredibly aggravated man. 'What's got you in such a mood?'

You know the way cats brush themselves against dogs when they want to annoy them? All slinky and sneaky. Yeah. Well that's how I walk, no, sashay past his nibs. Minus the tail, obviously. Though it would have really added to the whole effect.

I am a sultry vixen.

Ten minutes later we're seated at a small, square table in some random café (to be honest, I have no idea where we are). I pull the steaming mug of tea towards me while Sherlock drums his fingers, eyeing John's breakfast with a look nothing short of revulsion.

'Feeling better?'

'Mmm.' John glances at Sherlock concernedly. 'You realise we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?' He eats another forkful of food, then looks thoughtful. 'Has it occurred to you ...?'

'Probably.'

'No – has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid's shoes – it's all meant for you.'

Sherlock sighs and smiles slightly. 'Yes, I know.'

John places his fork on the plate. 'Is it him, then? Moriarty?' He whispers the last word.

My stomach just about does a 360° somersault upon hearing that name. Sherlock, noticing my discomfort, narrows his eyes slightly.

'Perhaps.' He turns back to John. The pink phone at his elbow beeps a message alert. Switching it on, Sherlock awaits the newest surprise. The phone sounds two short Greenwich pips followed by the longer tone, and a photograph of a smiling middle-aged woman appears on the screen.

'Well that could be anybody.' Sherlock huffs, slightly disappointed.

John, on the other hand, smiles grimly as he recognises the face. 'Lucky for you, Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly.' Rising from the table, he walks to the counter and switches on the small television hung on the wall. As John is flicking through the channels, Sherlock answers the ringing phone. I instantly recognise the voice.

Oh god. How could have forgotten this? The one with the poor old lady.

I notice Sherlock's expression – passive; unfeeling.

'Who was it this time?' John returns to join us. 'Jesus, Audrey, are you feeling okay?' He rests a hand on my shoulder.

'Hmm?' I am unable to meet his eyes, taken aback by the unexpected surge of sadness. Come on, Aud. Pull yourself together, you knew this would happen.

'You're as pale as a sheet! Do you feel ill?' John presses the back of his hand against my forehead, checking my temperature.

'No, no it's fine.' I wave him off. 'Just felt a little dizzy is all.' I force a smile. 'I'm fine now.'

'No she's not.' Sherlock pulls his coat on, a troubled look on his face. 'If I'm not mistaken, the future does not look bright for Moriarty's newest hostage.'

Not if I can help it.

'Ah Sherlock, John. Good, you're here.' Lestrade glances up from reading a file. 'Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly.'

'Before you ask, no, Sherlock has not seen it.' I sidle up beside Lestrade. 'Hi Greg.'

'Audrey,' He turns to me with a smile. 'Wasn't expecting to see you here.'

I laugh. 'Well, what choice do I have?' Wherever those two muppets go, I follow.' Lestrade frowns at this, slightly confused.

'W-well what I mean is that, they're showing me around London while I'm staying here so… I would have no one else without them.' I shoot a dazzling smile at Lestrade, hoping to distract him with my womanly wiles. Well, more like girly wiles really. Womanly suggests I ought to have curves and boobs. Both of which I am seriously lacking.

'Ah, I see.' Lestrade returns the smile, but does not look completely convinced.

'How deep is the wound?' I hear John asking.

Bending down to examine the now pale, purple laceration, I turn to John and try to keep a straight face. 'Hella.' I conclude.

'I don't – I don't understand that...' John begins as Lestrade throws Sherlock a 'what-is-wrong-with-this-girl' sort of look.

'Don't mind her, Inspector. She's menstruating.' He informs Lestrade absentmindedly.

'Sherlock!' I gasp and march over to the infuriating man, grabbing his elbow. 'A word. Now.' I hiss, dragging him out of the morgue.

'What? What is it?' He looks miffed. I stare up at him in disbelief. 'You actually thought there was nothing wrong in saying that, didn't you?' Sherlock opens and shuts his magnifying glass in impatience. 'Sherlock.' I look at him carefully. 'You do not go telling other people, especially not men, that I have my… thingymabob.'

'Why? It's a perfectly normal part of a woman's – ' He starts.

'Yes but most woman just like to keep that information private.' I interrupt him.

'Well "most women"' He makes the quotation sign with his fingers. 'Are prudes.'

I fold my arms. 'You know, I'd like to see things from your point of view but I can't seem to get my head that far up my ass.'

He says nothing, staring at me sulkily.

…

….

…..

'So, are we done here?'

I roll my eyes. Cheeky sod.

'Yes,' I motion towards the door tiredly. 'You may go.' And struts past me like a scolded cat.

One hour later, John and I find ourselves squashed between a rather heavy-set middle aged man and a hairless cat who seems to be sexually attracted to John's legs.

'I don't know what I'm going to do now.' Kenny stares at John intensely.

'Right...' John states awkwardly. Fidgeting he tries to move further away from Kenny, but is unable to do so. 'Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?'

'No.' Kenny replies quickly. Still staring intensely at John, he moves closer. 'You fire away.'

The cat meows and trots across the carpet. John watches it and reaches up to rub the side of his nose. As he pulls his hand away, he suddenly realises something and quickly raises his hand to his nose once more, pretending to rub it as he quietly sniffs at his fingers and looks towards the cat again.

'John.' I blurt out, earning a dirty once-over from Kenny. 'Can I borrow your phone, please? I need to um… phone the photographer and see if he's on the way.' I give him the tiniest of nods, letting him know I've caught on.

'Sherlock.' I hiss into the phone as soon as I've made it out the front door. 'You've gotta get over here. Kenny's about to make a move on John any minute now and I don't think I'm strong enough to pull him off, I really don't.' I flex my arm muscles weakly. Yep, definitely not. I hear Lestrade's muffled laughter in the background. 'Oh and John has a theory.' I add. 'You're going to need to a camera. Like a proper photography camera, with the big lens and flashgun.'

'I'm on my way.' Sherlock reassures me and disconnects.

John chuckles delightedly as we walk down the drive and head towards the main road. 'Yes! Ohh, yes!'

Sherlock smiles the smile of a man about to crush dreams. 'You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat.'

'What?' John stops suddenly. 'No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant.'

'Lovely idea.' Sherlock steps on the broken shards of said crushed dream.

'No,' John insists. 'He coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet – bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have ...'

Sherlock interrupts him. 'I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother.'

John, unrelenting, chuckles again. 'He murdered his sister for her money.'

'No. It was revenge.'

'Revenge?' John states, perplexed. 'Who wanted revenge?'

'Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so ...'

John stops and turning towards Sherlock. 'No wait, wait. Wait a second.' I pat his arm consolingly. 'What about the disinfectant then, on the cat's claws?'

'Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now.' Sherlock waves at John's shirt. 'No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's internet records do, though.' John, disheartened, mumbles something about getting a cab, and marches ahead of us.

I sigh. 'You've really got to work on the whole "empathy" thing.' I nudge Sherlock's side as he watches John speed ahead.

'Empathy?' He looks down at me. 'I do not lack empathy, I just ignore it in favour of objective logic.' He says simply. 'I choose not to act upon such feelings. Being sentimental doesn't make me solve the case more efficiently.'

'You know, Sherlock,' I link my arm through his, ignoring the protests. 'I do have a lot of respect for you.' He raises an eyebrow in response. 'That is, when you're not being a total asswipe.'

He snorts at this, and then frowns, as if remembering something. 'I received a very peculiar message earlier; on the pink phone.'

'Oh yes?' I ask.

'Mm. It said: "To the Snow Princess",' My stomach lurches. ' "Don't forget my promise."' Sherlock gauges my reaction. 'Any idea what that could mean?'

Tightening my grip on his arm, I laugh shakily. 'Haven't the foggiest.'

Please let me know what you think! Thank you to reviewers: Fishpuppy, Daena Day, Shannon the Original, AdorkableAud, hopetothehopeless, sirolives, lially, SapphireBlue78, BelieveInSherlock, blackcatsrule, pinkyndx and guest! As always, you are greatly apprecited.