The Reality That Doesn't Exist

((THANK YOU DEAR! You are just incredible....)) "I don't want to sit down." she said firmly, cautiously watching this man who was watching her. "How do you know me? As far as I'm concerned, I don't know you. And you must be wanting to avoid someone's attention, not calling me when if you know me you should know that I do in fact have one. And then contacting me in a roundabout way, leading me here. Wonder why that is?"

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down." Mycroft emphasised the last two words quite forcefully but John ignored him. "You don’t seem very afraid," Mycroft observed.

"You don't seem very frightening." she said firmly. So... He knew Sherlock and he didn't want Sherlock to know about this.

"Yes…" Mycroft said softly. "The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

She flinched when he was basically calling her stupid, then got very very defensive. "I don't have one. I don't really know him. I met him yesterday. Though I fail to see why that's any of your business."

"Mmm," Mycroft murmured speculatively. "and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together." He fixed John with an anticipatory look. "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" At John's demand to know who he was, Mycroft merely smiled enigmatically and replied "An interested party."

Determined not to give the doctor the upper hand, the politician waited for her response. He was still 98 percent sure that she was still the right--and only--person for the job. This interview was merely confirming what Mycroft already knew but there was no sense in wasting a perfect opportunity for the dramatic.

She clenched her fists at the happy announcement. Interested party? "You mean interested in Sherlock. Why is that? Judging from how you got me to meet you and said you were avoiding his attention, I'd say the two of you aren't friends."

"You’ve met him." Mycroft was observing his guest constantly, watching her reactions, gaging her responses. Right now she was irritated, not intimidated. "How many friends do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having," Mycroft admitted, awaiting John's next comment with interest.

She thought about it for a minute, supposing it was true but slightly wishing it wasn't. "And I suppose here you'll say you're his enemy."

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." Mycroft allowed himself a--very small--smile and watched Watson intently. He was interested by the doctor's responses, her fearless manner toward him. Schooling his features back to seriousness, he eagerly awaited her next input.

Several things about Dr Watson appealed to the elder Holmes; her military precision, her pragmatic bravery, her surgeon's habit of cutting straight to the heart of the matter. All aspects of her character that Mycroft found himself drawn to. They appealed to his own sense of self, characteristics he could respect, but also desire. His head tilted fractionally which was as far as he allowed himself to go when putting his head on one side. Could it be that he was actually experiencing some form of attraction? How interesting. This would need some further observation, more data.

((YEEEEEES SHERLOCK TEXT TIIIIIIME! WOOOOO! I'm sorry, I've been waiting for this for so long.))

She smirked slightly, scoffed, and rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, thank GOD you're above all of that." ((Now I had an idea, you don't have to do it Sherlock, but I thought for this bit we could actually have a bit of an explanation as to why he suddenly thought of texting John.

I mean, you know, they just kinda passed it off in the mini-series and it felt like something was left out. They didn't even show what was happening to Sherlock at the time. So... If you don't want to, that's fine, I won't make you do something you don't want.))

(( Sounds good... ))


After fleeing the crime scene, Sherlock knew exactly what he was looking for and where he could find it. Well, roughly. Taking the back routes through the city in the immediate radius of the building, he clambered onto the rooftops and gazed down over everything, making mental notes of the locations of various skips.

Climbing back down again, he went to visit each one in turn, not minding getting his suit and coat dirty searching through them like a wild animal, holding his breath against the stench of the rubbish until finally he got what he was after - the pink suitcase belonging to Jennifer Wilson, the dead girl.

Returning to Baker Street in a triumphant mood, he sponged down his favourite coat and hung it up to dry, then changed his suit before opening up the case and having a look inside. Searching through the woman's overnight bag was an intriguing experience, made more so by the notable absense of a mobile phone. There was no phone on the body and none in the case. She had to have had one, with a string of lovers like that, she wouldn't have gone anywhere without it, what's more, there was a number on the security case on the tag which he presumed was hers. He grabbed a pen and piece of paper, scribbling it down.

Flopping down on the sofa to relax and think things through, Sherlock reached for the nicotine patches and rolled up his sleeve, attaching one to his arm. Just one for now, he'd see how it went. They needed to speed this case up, force the murderer into action, bring things to a close before he had chance to kill again. But how?

The number...Jennifer Wilson's phone number...God, he was tempted to text it. He even got his phone out and started composing a message, then thought better of it. His number was listed on his website. If the killer had been on it, he'd know they were onto him.

"MRS HUDSON!!!" He screamed down the stairs. He knew their landlady had a mobile, he'd bought it for her himself, told her she needed to get out of the Victorian ages and into the 21st Century. "MRS HUDSON!!! I NEED TO BORROW YOUR PHONE!" No answer. "MRS HUDSON!"

Well. He wasn't about to move off the sofa. Not when he'd just got comfortable. John. He'd have to text John. God knows where she was anyway. It didn't take that long to get back from Brixton. Perhaps she'd gone back to her flat to pick up some more things. Either way, he had to get her back here to borrow her phone. He opened up a message, typed it and quickly sent it.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH

"I do hope I'm not distracting you," Mycroft said pointedly as John's phone pinged a text alert and she glanced at it. Really, this woman was either ignorant or she really was unafraid of him. Which was possibly rather arousing, if truth be known.

"No. Not at all, please excuse me." she said placidly. Distracting her! Psh. What a thought! She found his pointedness in that sentence strikingly familiar.

Receiving no reply, and not neccessarily expecting one, Sherlock quickly fired off another text to John.

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

He really couldn't afford to be waiting around. He needed action on this immediately.

Her phone beeped again. Sheesh! She scoffed, quickly got it out of her pocket again, and checked it. What was so important?! He didn't need her, that was ridiculous. Again, she did not respond to the text and put it back. "You were saying?" she asked him.

Mycroft tried not to let the distraction irk him but he barely succeeded. This was not going according to plan and yet, Dr Watson did not seem to be the sort who could be bought. Well, maybe not. Maybe Mycroft hadn't found the right price yet and when he did...

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, pitching the demanding tone just short of you-will-answer-me-now and more like please-tell-me-because-I-am-concerned. Either way, he had the uncomfortable feeling neither tone would work.

((apologies I haven't updated, the bloody updates are not working))

((It's all right, dear, it happens.)) She said rather pointedly and looking straight at him, her blue eyes hard "I fail to see how that's any of your business."

"It could be," Mycroft tried to turn on the menace but John stood there, mulishly, staring him down.

"It really couldn't." she said still in the hard steady voice, keeping her gaze fixed on him. She was not going to be intimidated by him.

"If you do move into, um…" Mycroft consulted his notebook for the new address, the one Sherlock had deliberately not told him about, "…221B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way," Mycroft offered. On John's abrupt question why, Mycroft added simply, "Because you’re not a wealthy man," as if it made perfect sense. Which it did, to Mycroft. He would see if John did have a price after all.

((OH MY FRIKING GOSH MYCROFT YOU JUST CALLED HER A MAN! XD)) She blinked not even moving at the fact she'd been called a man. "In exchange for information about Sherlock." she figured.

Mycroft smiled. Oh, had that rankled? Had he found a chink in her armor? Her reaction might have been infinitessimal but it was there. "Nothing you’d feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to," Mycroft suggested.

"Why?" she asked more interested to find out exactly what connection this man had to Sherlock. She let what happened pass, she didn't really care. It was true, she WAS probably a man.

"I worry about him, constantly," Mycroft admitted. That was the truth, and the ironic thing was, she probably didn't believe him.