The Reality That Doesn't Exist

"Well, that's very nice of you." she said only being a little sarcastic. "And let me guess, your... relationship with him is a difficult one, so you prefer to keep your concern on the sidelines. Is that right?"

Mycroft found he actually liked this woman. She was unafraid to the point of foolhardiness. "We are...not on the best of terms, yes. There are various reasons that my concern go unmentioned and you have not answered my question, doctor."

"Oh. As to your offer, no." she said adamantly and again making sure her eyes made direct contact with his.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure." Mycroft waited politely for John's reaction to that.

"Don't bother mentioning one." she said firmly. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd said a million, she wouldn't have budged.

"You're very loyal, very quickly," Mycroft observed, a touch irritated at her assurance, despite being rather proud that she was so adamantly against being bought. He pulled out a notebook, intending to test her still further.

"No I'm not at all. I just have no have no interest in your offer." She said defensively and her eyes caught the notebook.

"That's her notebook, isn't it? My therapist. Not that hard to figure out, I've seen her with that exact one enough. I'd ask how you got it, but it's obvious a man who watched me with four security cameras and just offered me money to spy on Sherlock Holmes would be able to get that if he wanted."

"Trust issues, it says here." Mycroft regarded the doctor carefully. "Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" he asked. "After all, you don't seem the kind to make friends that easily."

Her fists curled up again. "Who says I trust him?" she said tersely at his question about Sherlock. Good God, why was she like this? Then at the question about friends. "I'm sorry, have we finished yet?" Her eyes narrowed.

"You tell me," Mycroft said with a polite smile. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen." Mycroft enjoyed the look of confusion that passed across her features, features he found he could study for a long time and not get bored with the nuances. Mycroft held out an imperious hand. "Show me," he demanded, walking forward and reaching to take hold of the doctor's fingers.

She didn't like the idea of him touching her at all. "No. Don't touch me." she said firmly. "How... how do you know about it? No one knows about it."

Mycroft shot her a reproachful look with his head on one side. Now, now, it said, I thought said you weren't afraid? He held out his hand and gently took the doctor's fingers in his own, holding her hand out flat. Examining it for barely a couple of seconds, he abruptly let go and stepped back, staring at her with a slight smile. "Remarkable," Mycroft said softly. "Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?" he challenged.

She looked straight at him, almost as bewildered by him as she was by Sherlock. "Because I have an intermittent tremor, don't I? And let's see, my therapist thinks it's Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and that I'm haunted by memories of the war. I'm not stupid." she said managing to keep her calm.

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. "Fire her," he said seriously. "She’s got it the wrong way around. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady." Mycroft watched the dawning realisation on John's face. "You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson…" Mycroft fixed her with his most piercing stare. "You miss it," he enunciated the words carefully for maximum impact. "Welcome back," he said when the doctor's expression froze into disbelief, then he turned away, swinging his umbrella as he walked off, his fingers sending a prearranged text to his assistant to take Watson home. "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said cheerily as he walked off into the darkness. Yes, he felt sure the woman would be the prefect person for this job. Time to up their surveillance status, he considered carefully.

"I'm to take you home," Anthea announced to John's back and waited, her attention still firmly attached to her ever-present blackberry. "Address?" she prompted, impatience barely concealed.

[Annnnnd again if you wouldn't mind, here we have Sherlock's last text, the one that really sinks in.]

(( Ah yeah, I've been waiting for this moment! ))


After waiting for what seemed like hours for John to return his text messages but what, in reality, was probably only five minutes or so, Sherlock was beginning to get very impatient.

His demands for her to 'come at once' obviously weren't having much of an effect, for she had neither replied nor arrived home. He needed to try a different tactic, something he knew for certain would have the desired effect, something he could rely upon.

Smirking to himself as he thought of the perfect plan, he quickly fired off a text message and sent it to John.

Could be dangerous. SH

Her phone went off again, she was about to swear out loud but then she checked it. And there was that word, "dangerous", the call back to the battlefield. "Baker Street. 221 B. Baker Street. But there's somewhere I need to stop first." she said to 'Anthea' and got in the car. She was completely silent this time and they arrived at the little place she'd been staying.

So she got in, got her gun from the drawer, and equipped it; then got back in the car. It was obvious the woman had told her boss what address, so there was no point in mentioning it or anything else.