Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

London, United Kingdom,
Autumn had settled over London, with leaves falling down like pieces into place. The air was crisp, tinged with the faintest hint of wood smoke.
“Ah, London, finally I’m here! I’ve been so excited to come back for so long,” Catherine said as she stepped out of the airport, her eyes widening at the familiar sights of the city. Catherine Hudson was returning to her childhood home after several years away in China. She took out her phone, her fingers slightly numb from the cool breeze, and decided to call her mother, Mrs Hudson.

“Brrr… Brrr…” The phone rang, but for some reason, no one was picking up.
“Hmm, strange. Why isn’t Mum answering? I hope the address I have in mind is correct and doesn’t send me to some random place,” she muttered as she ended the call and decided to hail a cab.
“Taxi!” she shouted, and within moments, a cab stopped in front of her.
“Hop in, young lady,” the driver said, welcoming her into the car. She smiled back at him and got in.
“221B Baker Street, please,” Catherine said.

The cabbie nodded, and as they set off, he asked, “You don’t sound like a local, young lady. The way you said ‘taxi’ instead of ‘cab’ gave it away. Where are you from?”
“Oh! I was studying in Beijing, China, where I pursued a JD and a PhD in Law. It’s been a decade since I last returned to London.” Catherine replied.
“I see. I absolutely love China! Ah, I wish I could go there someday instead of driving a cab in this dull old city,” the driver laughed after ending his words.
Catherine laughed along with him after hearing his words.
After chatting a bit more with the cabbie, she finally arrived at her destination.
“Thank you, cabbie, and thanks for the chat along the way,” Catherine said with a warm smile as she waved.
“No worries, young lady. Welcome back to London!” the cabbie replied with a wave before driving off.
She turned her back and looked at the building, which still looked the same as it had 10 years ago. “Well, my memory’s still as good as ever,” she said, lifting her two pink suitcases and heading to the door. She knocked and waited for someone to answer.
She heard footsteps coming down the stairs and felt a surge of excitement, eager to surprise her mother.
As the door slowly creaked open, the person standing there wasn’t her mother but a man she had never seen before.
“Who’s this?” the man, with naturally grey hair, asked.
“I’m so sorry, I think I’ve come to the wrong address.
Apologies for the trouble, sir,” Catherine replied, her voice shaky and her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She started to turn away, ready to grab her luggage and leave as quickly as possible.
“Cath!!! Oh my God, what are you doing here, my love?” Catherine immediately recognised the voice — it was her mother! She turned around and saw the person she had been longing to meet were just standing inside of the living room.
“Mum!!!” Catherine exclaimed, rushing past the man in the doorway to hug her mother. The hug was warm and heartfelt, even though there was still a stranger standing in the doorway.

“Mrs Hudson, is this your daughter you’ve been mentioning for the past month?” the man leaned against the wall, chuckling as he watched them embrace.
“Mum, who is this guy?” Catherine asked, covering her mouth and whispering into her mother’s ear.
“Don’t worry, my love. Dr Watson, this is Catherine Hudson. Cath, this is John Watson. He’s one of my residents living here,” Mrs Hudson explained.
“Wait, Mum, what do you mean by ‘one of’? Does that mean there’s someone else?” Catherine asked, looking both surprised and confused.
“Yes, Cath, so…” Mrs Hudson chuckled in a slightly mischievous way. “You’ll need to stay in the apartment down the street. It’s quite close, and I know the landlord. He will give you a discount if he knows that you’re my daughter!” Mrs Hudson patted Catherine's shoulder gently, as if to make up for the inconvenience.
“Oh, Mum, I must have inherited my clumsy genes from you, to be honest,” Catherine sighed, touching the bridge of her nose. John and Mrs Hudson couldn’t help but laugh at the situation, while Catherine looked utterly exhausted.
“Well, Mrs Hudson, Miss Catherine’s probably quite tired. Perhaps you could make her a cup of tea?” John suggested, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
“Ah, I’m not a big fan of tea. Just a glass of water will do,” Catherine said to John.
“I’m not the housekeeper for either of you,” Mrs Hudson replied with a playful grin, but she still headed to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.
Catherine settled onto her favourite sofa, all the memories still can be pictured after all these days. The photo album on the counter seemed to transport her back in time.
John broke the silence. “So, why’ve you come back to London then, Miss Catherine?”
“I’m here because I’ve finally finished my studies in China and please, no need to call me ‘Miss’. Just Catherine, or Cath for short,” she replied casually, her tone much more relaxed compared to their earlier exchange at the door. John nodded, acknowledging her preference.
“Well, Cath, what do you want to do now that you’re back in London?” Mrs Hudson asked as she returned from the kitchen. She set the glass of water on the coffee table, sat down beside Catherine on the sofa, and took her hand.
“Mum, calm down. I’ll find a job here soon enough. I’ve just arrived, let me have a chance to explore the city again,” Catherine replied, gently patting Mrs Hudson’s hand back.
Mrs Hudson looked at Catherine and smiled. “John, I heard you were going out, weren’t you? Well, could you do me a favour?” Mrs Hudson turned her head towards John, who was engrossed in the photo albums.
“What? Oh, yes, of course, Mrs Hudson. It’d be my pleasure to help,” John replied, clearly a bit distracted by the photos.
“Could you take Cath to Mr Frasco’s apartment? It’s just two streets away, still quite close. Would you mind?” Mrs Hudson asked.
“Not a problem at all, Mrs Hudson,” John answered.
“Do you want to head over now, Catherine??” John added. Catherine looked at John and nodded, feeling utterly exhausted. She stood up, hugged her mother, and promised Mrs Hudson that she’d return tomorrow to visit.
John offered to help with Catherine’s luggage. As they walked, Catherine couldn’t help but ask a bunch of questions about what had happened in London while she was in China. John filled her in on the details, explaining how he came to rent the house, and, of course, mentioning Sherlock Holmes—the high-functioning sociopath who was the main reason John ended up renting that apartment.
“Ah, here we are, the apartment you’ll be staying in,” John said as he set down the luggage and knocked on the door. Within seconds, Mr Frasco opened the door and greeted them warmly.“Mrs Hudson filled me in on everything during our phone call. Welcome, make yourself at home, Miss Catherine!” Mr Frasco was an energetic and friendly man, much to Catherine’s relief—she had half-expected the landlord to be quite cocky.
“Ah, it’s quite all right. I’ll be on my way shortly—I’m heading out of town for a few days to assist with some cases,” John replied.
“By the way, Catherine, might I ask a favour? Would you… ummm… keep Sherlock Holmes company in my absence?” John added.
“Me? I barely know him! You’ve only mentioned that he’s a high-functioning sociopath who works as a ‘consulting detective’ And neither that description sounds nice to me,” Catherine replied, her tone tinged with surprise.
“I believe the two of you will get along just fine,” John reassured her. Catherine wasn’t sure how to decline John’s request, especially after having bothered him with so many questions and receiving so much help along the way. She nodded in agreement as a gesture of acceptance.
John gave Catherine and Mr Frasco a warm smile and a friendly wave, and he went to call a cab to head out of town. Mr Frasco then informed Catherine that she would be living in the apartment upstairs while he resided downstairs. He handed her the key to her new home.
Catherine thanked him graciously and made her way up the stairs with her luggage. As she entered her new apartment, she took a deep breath, appreciating the fresh start ahead. The apartment was modest but welcoming, and she could already envision making it her own. With a sigh of relief, she set her bags down and began to unpack, eager to settle in and explore her surroundings.
The apartment felt incredibly cosy and warm, the perfect spot to spend a day doing nothing. It was even larger than Catherine had expected. The furniture was well-chosen, and the arrangement was both stylish and functional, adding to the welcoming atmosphere. Catherine quickly felt at home in the apartment, though the tiredness from her long day started to catch up with her. After unpacking just the essentials she’d need for the night—like her pyjamas, toiletries, and phone charger etc, she decided to head to bed. The comfort of the apartment helped her relax, and she soon drifted off to sleep, ending her busy day.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, gently pulling Catherine from her peaceful dreams. She sat on her soft bed, still nestled in the comfort of her dreams, not quite ready to face the day. Her auburn curls were tousled from sleep, cascading around her face and highlighting her natural beauty even without any makeup. The rich, reddish-brown hue of her hair was a trait she had inherited from her late father, a feature that marked her appearance with a hint of his legacy. However, her gentle and composed nature was a gift from her mother. Her mother had been known for her kindness and calm demeanour, qualities that Catherine now carried with her. Catherine stood up, ready to greet the new day with a fresh start. She took her time to prepare herself, ensuring she looked and felt her best.

She chose to wear a balloon-sleeved white top paired with black jeans, embracing the trendy acubi style popular in East Asia. As she gazed out of her window, the weather appeared pleasantly cosy, just right for letting her hair down without the worry of it clinging to her neck in the heat.

Once she was ready, she made her way downstairs, keen to find a good place for breakfast and explore what London had to offer. However, just as Catherine was about to put on her shoes, Mr Frasco stopped her and invited her to join him for breakfast. Though surprised, she agreed with a smile—after all, who can resist a good meal? Mr Frasco prepared a traditional British breakfast, which included back bacon, eggs, English sausage, and more. Although Mr Frasco was a tall, buff, tough-looking man at about 6 feet, his impressive cooking skills were a delightful surprise, adding an unexpectedly charming touch to his otherwise formidable presence. They engaged in a bit of small talk about the neighbourhood, and for a moment, it felt oddly precious to Catherine.

“Thank you, Mr Frasco. I have to admit, I thought you might be rather intimidating at first, but this delicious meal has certainly changed my mind,” Catherine said with a smile, dabbing her mouth with a napkin beside her plate. “Let me help with the dishes,” she added, standing up quickly to stop Mr Frasco from refusing her offer. Mr Frasco remained seated as Catherine spoke, his hand reaching out as she finished talking, attempting to stop her from doing the dishes. However, Catherine walked briskly away from the dining table, leaving Mr Frasco to laugh and shake his head. After cleaning the dishes, she thanked Mr Frasco once again and left the apartment, about to go to Mrs Hudson apartment.

When on the way, she enjoyed the view in London. The city wakes with a golden glow, the air cool and fresh. Leaves crunch softly underfoot as mist dances in the morning sun, wrapping the city in a serene embrace. She pulled her digital camera from her tote bag and began capturing the picturesque views of London.
As Catherine took pictures around London, she noticed four police cars at the end of the street on the opposite side. Her nosiness was sparked, similar to how her Chinese classmates would react. However, she reminded herself that she needed to get to Mrs Hudson’s apartment quickly. With a sigh, she turned away and continued on her way. After about half an hour, she arrived at Mrs Hudson’s apartment. As she waited for her mother to answer the door, she reviewed the photos she had just taken. Each one was stunning, confirming that London truly is a beautiful city to visit.

She lifted her camera, intending to capture a candid photo of her mother as she opened the door. The shutter clicked, freezing a moment in time. Catherine smiled at the image on the screen: Mrs Hudson, framed by the doorway, her expression a mix of surprise and warmth.

“Mother, what took you so long to open the door?” Catherine asked playfully as she lowered the camera.
“Sorry, love. My legs aren’t as quick as they used to be,” Mrs Hudson replied with a light chuckle, brushing her hands against her apron as if to excuse the delay.

The realisation hit her harder than expected. It had been ten years since she’d left London, busy studying to become a lawyer in Beijing. In those years, her mother had been left to fend for herself, enduring the final years of Catherine’s abusive father. Though he’d been executed in Florida a few years ago, the memories of what her mother must have endured haunted Catherine.

“It’s not your fault, Mother. Let’s sit down and talk,” Catherine said, gently supporting her mother by holding her arm to make walking easier. Mrs Hudson nodded in agreement. Catherine guided her mother to the comfortable sofa in the living room. The room, with its soft autumn light streaming through the windows, felt like a sanctuary. Once they were seated, Catherine settled beside Mrs Hudson, ensuring her mother was comfortable before starting the conversation.

“So, tell me everything,” Catherine said softly, her eyes full of concern. “How have you been managing all these years?” Mrs Hudson took a deep breath, her eyes gazing out the window as if searching for the right words. “It’s been challenging, dear,” she began, her voice carrying the weight of many unspoken stories. “After your father was gone, I had to navigate a new way of life on my own. I had friends and neighbours who were kind and supportive, but it never quite felt the same without you here.”
Catherine’s heart ached as she listened. She reached out to her mother, her hand finding Mrs Hudson’s. “I wish I could have been here to support you more,” she said, her voice tinged with regret and sorrow.

Mrs Hudson looked at her daughter, her eyes softening. “You were doing important work, Catherine. I’m proud of you for that. And despite everything, I managed. I had a good network of support, though it wasn’t always easy.”

“Yes, we can. And I want to make up for lost time. We’ll take things one step at a time,” she said, her voice steady with resolve. As they spoke, the autumn light danced across the room, casting a warm, golden hue that seemed to envelop them in its embrace. The soft rustle of leaves outside provided a soothing backdrop to their conversation, and Catherine felt an overwhelming sense of homecoming. The city, with its familiar sights and sounds, seemed to welcome her back, offering a promise of renewal and connection.

Mrs Hudson leaned back, her expression one of quiet contentment. “I’m just so glad you’re here, Catherine. It feels like a new beginning.” Catherine nodded, her heart swelling with hope. “It is a new beginning. We’ll make the most of it, together.”

As they sat together, sipping tea and catching up, Catherine suddenly remembered something. “So speaking of that,” Catherine said, her curiosity piqued, “who helped you with settling everything with that case ?”
Mrs Hudson smiled, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Oh, it was Sherlock. You saw him just now at the door. He’s been a tremendous help. Though he can be a bit unconventional, he’s genuinely a nice guy.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Sherlock Holmes ?”
“Yes, that’s the one,” Mrs Hudson confirmed with a nod. “He might seem a bit odd at times, but he’s been incredibly supportive. His presence has made a world of difference.”
Catherine couldn’t help but chuckle. “I suppose I’ll get to know him better soon enough. John mentioned he’s a high-functioning sociopath who works as a ‘consulting detective.’ That sounded rather daunting, but hearing that he’s been a lifesaver for you might just change my perspective.”

As they chatted about various topics, Catherine’s mind drifted back to John’s request. She remembered that John had asked her to keep Sherlock company while he was out of town. Her initial apprehension about meeting the famed detective resurfaced, but she felt a sense of responsibility to fulfil the promise she had made

“Mother,” Catherine said, breaking the pleasant silence, “I’ve just remembered something. John asked me to keep Sherlock company while he’s away. I should probably go and do that.”
Mrs Hudson looked at her with a knowing smile. “Yes, dear, I’m sure Sherlock would appreciate the company. He can be a bit of a loner. He is probably upstairs busy with some cases.”
Catherine sighed softly, feeling a mix of worry and curiosity. “Well, it’s a bit daunting, but I suppose it’s part of the adventure of coming back to London. I’ll try to make the best of it.”
Mrs Hudson gave her a supportive nod. “Just be yourself. Sherlock might seem intimidating, but he’s not as bad as he appears. And remember, you have a lot to offer.”

She thanked her mother “I think I’ll go and check in with Sherlock,” she said, standing up. “It’s time to see what this consulting detective is all about.”
Mrs Hudson smiled and gave her a supportive nod. “Good luck, my dear. I’m sure it will turn out to be an interesting experience

Catherine gathered her belongings and walked up to upstairs, her fingers gripping the strap of her bag tightly. Reaching the front door, she hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly. Almost immediately, the sound of footsteps echoed from within, followed by the sharp click of a lock being undone.

The door creaked open, and there stood Sherlock, his gaze briefly meeting hers before flicking away to something more interesting in the distance. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, examining her for a moment. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them.

“Hmm,” Sherlock finally spoke, his voice calm and analytical. “You’ve just returned from China, haven’t you, Miss Hudson?”
Catherine blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t spoken to him before. How could he know she was Mrs Hudson’s daughter, let alone that she had just returned from China?

“Pardon?” she asked, trying to mask her surprise.
Sherlock didn’t reply, instead he gave a small, almost dismissive shrug. “Come in, please.” He stepped aside, gesturing towards the narrow staircase leading to the upstairs apartment.

Catherine hesitated for a brief moment before stepping over the threshold and into the dimly lit hallway. She followed Sherlock up the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under their weight.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Sherlock said, his voice flat and disinterested as he gestured to a chair near the small table. He didn’t seem eager to engage in conversation, already absorbed in his book again, barely glancing up as he spoke.

Catherine set her things down and settled into the chair, glancing around the room. It was sparse, functional—nothing about it screamed ‘homey’. Sherlock, completely absorbed in his reading, didn’t seem to notice the silence stretching between them.

“So, do you have a case for me to solve?” Sherlock asked, breaking the silence without looking up from his book.
“No, I don’t,” Catherine replied. “I’m here because Dr. Watson asked me to.”
“Indeed?” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow slightly. “And why would John send you here?”
“He asked me to keep you company,” Catherine said.
Sherlock finally closed his book and turned his full attention to Catherine, his keen eyes assessing her with a mix of curiosity. “I see. And you agreed to this... task, did you?”
Catherine nodded. “Yes, I did. John seemed to think it was important.”
Sherlock leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “If your presence here is intended to provide companionship, I suppose I should make an effort to engage. Though I must admit, I don’t particularly need any company.”
Catherine gave a small, encouraging smile. “I’m sure we can find something interesting to discuss. Perhaps you could tell me a bit about your work?”
“There are no cases at the moment in London, and it’s driving me mad! I NEED NEW CASES!” Sherlock cried, his voice rising with agitation.

Catherine was taken aback by Sherlock Holmes's outburst, but it made her think of the crime scene she had seen earlier.
“Well, I did notice a crime scene at the end of the street,” she said.
Sherlock’s interest was clearly stirred. He stood up and went to the window, examining the view outside as if to confirm her words. “Are you sure? Do you know what type of case it is?” he asked.
“I didn’t catch any details, I was in a bit of a hurry to get here,” she replied.

Sherlock regarded Catherine thoughtfully, as if weighing her words. After a moment, he said, “If it seems like an intriguing case, it might be worth investigating. Perhaps you could join me.”
“Really? That’s so kind of you, Mr. Holmes. I’d love to come with you,” Catherine said, her excitement evident in her tone.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Ah, I see why John sent you. You’re quite intriguing, Miss... Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Catherine. Just call me Catherine or Cath,” she replied with a smile. He nodded as a sign of understanding her preferences.
Sherlock led Catherine outside into the crisp midday air. As they walked, he appeared relaxed but kept a keen eye on their surroundings, clearly deep in thought. Catherine remained quiet, not wanting to interrupt his concentration.

As they continued their silent walk, Catherine eventually broke the quiet with a touch of curiosity in her voice. “By the way, how did you know I’m Mrs Hudson’s daughter and that I’ve just returned from China?”

Sherlock glanced sideways at her, his expression unreadable. “Observation, Miss Catherine. Your accent and mannerisms reveal that you’ve been away for quite some time. For instance, you bow when you apologise, you also remove your shoes before entering the house, which is quite unusual in the UK. These gestures wouldn’t change easily unless you had been exposed to such cultures for a long period. Such practices are common in some Asian cultures.”
He continued, eyes never leaving her. “Then there’s your watch. It’s set 7 hours ahead of London, indicating a time zone of UTC+08:00. Now, let’s narrow this down: you’re not from Southeast Asia. Your skin shows no signs of the sun exposure typical of that region. Australia is unlikely as well; Australians generally don’t follow the custom of removing shoes indoors. This leaves us with China, Mongolia, or Russia, and considering your attire and comportment, China it is.”

Sherlock paused for a moment before adding, “The reason I’m confident you’re Mrs Hudson’s daughter is the striking resemblance. Your hair colour and high nose bridge resemble your father’s, while the curl of your hair mirrors your mother’s.” He turned his gaze back to the street ahead, his tone matter-of-fact. “Details like these often provide useful context.”

“Wow, that was really impressive! How do you do that?” Catherine asked, genuinely astonished. Sherlock, caught off guard by the compliment, blinked in surprise. He wasn’t accustomed to receiving praise for his methods; most people found his deductions rather unsettling. “Um, thank you,” he replied, slightly flustered by the unexpected admiration.

For a moment, Sherlock appeared momentarily disarmed, his usual composure giving way to a hint of vulnerability. He cleared his throat and quickly regained his usual air of detachment. “It’s a matter of observation and deduction, Miss Catherine. Noticing the smallest details often reveals much more than one might initially assume.” As they continued down the street, Sherlock’s demeanour returned to its analytical norm, though a faint hint of a smile lingered at the corner of his lips.

Chapter Text

“Ah here we are, ” Catherine pointed at the crime scene, Sherlock followed her gaze and spotted Inspector Lestrade in the distance. He quickly started walking in his direction. Sherlock kept walking, and within a few seconds, he arrived in front of Inspector Lestrade, who looked somewhat surprised and happy. Sherlock eyed Inspector Lestrade's overly cheerful expression and raised an eyebrow. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Ah, Lestrade. Looking rather cheerful today, aren't we?”

Lestrade replied “Well guess not Sherlock. Mrs. Eleanor Briggs, a well-liked elderly woman who lives alone, has been missing for 24 hours. Her neighbour, Mr. Johnson noticed that her newspapers had piled up and her mailbox was overflowing—a strange sight for someone who usually keeps a tidy home. Mr. Johnson, concerned, knocked on her door but received no answer. He tried calling her phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Finally, he decided to call the police, fearing the worst.”

Sherlock listened with rapt attention, his mind already processing the information being given. When Lestrade finished, Sherlock spoke, his voice calm and collected. “Interesting. Any signs of forced entry?”
Lestrade replied “The front door is unlocked. Inside, the living room appears undisturbed, but there’s a faint smell of something burning in the kitchen. The kettle is still warm on the stove, but the tea is dry.”
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he processed this information. “So, the kettle was used recently, and the stove was on. Yet the tea has evaporated, suggesting Mrs. Briggs was interrupted before she could finish her task—or perhaps she extinguished the flame herself. Were there any other clues that might shed light on this?”

Sherlock listened carefully as Lestrade spoke, each clue adding to the growing mystery. When he finished, Sherlock's gaze became more intense. Lestrade continue saying “there's 3 suspect :
Mr. Harold Baker: A reclusive man who recently moved into the neighbourhood. He’s been seen lurking around, but no one knows much about him.
Mrs. Linda Parker: Another neighbour who had a heated argument with Mrs. Briggs a week ago over property boundaries.
The Delivery Guy: He was the last person seen leaving Mrs. Briggs’ house, delivering a package the day she went missing.”

Catherine had been quietly listening to their conversation but soon felt compelled to speak up. “Mr. Baker? I heard my landlord mention him this morning. However my landlord described him…as a psychopath.”

Sherlock turned his attention to her, clearly intrigued by her input. His cool gaze bore into her as he asked, “Really? And why did your landlord think Mr. Baker is mentally ill?”

“He said he had a conversation with him once, and it was... well, not great. He accused my landlord of conspiring with others to have him evicted from his home. It was really strange, right?” Catherine replied.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, a flash of interest crossing his face. “That is indeed peculiar. Accusing someone of conspiring against you, especially without any evidence, is quite unusual. Perhaps he is suffering from some form of paranoid delusion?”

“I think so, but I'm not entirely sure. Maybe you could ask the police to check his medical history?”

Sherlock nodded, considering her suggestion for a few moments before responding, “That might be a good idea. If we could access Mr. Baker's medical records, it could provide insight into his mental state and whether he has a history of such delusions. I'll see what I can do.”

“Okay, let me take a quick look around, Mr. Holmes,” Catherine said. Sherlock gave her a nod, signalling for her to proceed. His gaze lingered on her briefly before he returned his attention to the crime scene, scanning every detail as he waited for her to return.

Catherine then approached Lestrade, asking him for the address of the delivery guy and Mrs. Linda Parker.She noticed that the address of both of the house was really near so without informing anyone, she decided to visit Mrs. Parker’s house first, on her own. Sherlock noticed her departure and observed her interaction with Lestrade. When she requested the addresses, he raised an eyebrow, silently noting the information and storing it in his mind. As he watched her head towards Mrs. Parker's house, he didn't try to stop her but was curious to see what she was up to.

When they reached Mrs. Linda Parker's front door, Catherine knocked with a sense of determination. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing Mrs. Parker, who eyed them both with suspicion.

"Who are you?" Mrs. Parker asked, her tone laced with caution.

Catherine, however, was ready. She put on her best performance, her voice cracking as she dabbed her eyes with the tissues. “I'm Kath Briggs,” she replied, her words trembling with faux emotion, “Mrs. Briggs’ niece.” She sniffled theatrically, wiping away invisible tears, playing the part of a distressed relative to perfection.

Mrs. Parker’s face softened in surprise, her suspicion slowly fading. Though she looked a little uncertain, she still opened the door wider and gestured for Catherine to step inside. "Come in, dear," she said, though her gaze lingered on Catherine, as if trying to place her in the folds of her memory.

Meanwhile, Sherlock, who had been “secretly” observing Catherine from a distance, was left alone in the shadows, watching the interaction between Catherine and Mrs. Parker as they stood at the front door chatting.

Sherlock watched Catherine introduce herselves to Mrs. Linda Parker and enter her house. He waited for a few moments, making sure he wouldn't be noticed, before stealthily moving closer to the bushes near the house. Concealed among the foliage, his sharp eyes observed everything happening outside, while he strained to catch any snippets of Catherine conversation with Mrs. Parker. Sherlock stood quietly behind, observing the unfolding drama with his usual calm detachment, a hint of admiration for Catherine's quick thinking flickering behind his sharp eyes.

When Catherine and Mrs. Parker moved further inside the house, cutting off his line of sight and blocking his view of their interactions, Sherlock silently cursed under his breath. Frustration crept in as he realised he could no longer hear what was being said. However, he remained hidden, keeping watch for any visual clues that might reveal more about the situation.

(Inside the House）

Mrs. Linda Parker gestured for Catherine to sit on the sofa, offering a polite yet stiff smile. As Catherine settled in, Mrs. Parker began recounting her long tenure in the neighbourhood, emphasising that she had lived there for 15 years and took pride in maintaining her property. Her voice grew sharper as she mentioned the recent altercation with Mrs. Briggs, her elderly neighbour.

It all started with a tree branch, Mrs. Parker explained, which had grown over her fence. She had demanded that Mrs. Briggs trim it back, but the older woman, clearly struggling with age, found it difficult. To Mrs. Parker, this wasn’t just a matter of convenience; she viewed it as a slight against her, as if Mrs. Briggs had intentionally disregarded her wishes. What began as a simple request soon spiralled into a festering grudge, with Mrs. Parker feeling increasingly wronged by her neighbour's inability—or unwillingness—to resolve the issue. Catherine listened attentively, her fingers flying over her phone screen as she quickly typed notes.

(Back to Outside)
While Sherlock was trying to figure out how to listen to their conversation suddenly, a young man approached Sherlock, catching him off guard. Sherlock cursed under his breath again, realising he'd been spotted. The young man, clearly confused by Sherlock's behaviour, asked why he was hiding in the bushes. Sherlock, maintaining his cool demeanour, stepped out from the foliage, offering a careless expression.

“Umm, I’m here because I’m worried about my… sister! She’s at Mrs. Parker’s house,” Sherlock said, extending his hand for a handshake, his acting impeccable as ever.
The young man raised an eyebrow, but then nodded. “Oh, I see. Well, why don’t you come inside?”
Sherlock offered a polite smile and followed the young man into Mrs. Parker’s house.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to piece together who this young man was. The young man introduced himself as Mark Davis, Mrs. Linda Parker's nephew and the neighbourhood delivery guy. Mark had been delivering packages in the area for over a year and often helped Mrs. Briggs carry heavy items into her home. Although Mrs. Briggs saw him as a kind and helpful young man, Sherlock noticed an air of nervousness around him.

As he stepped in, his sharp eyes immediately began scanning the surroundings. Every detail— from the layout to the furnishings—was noted in his mind, each piece of the environment quickly forming part of his internal analysis. He moved with the ease of someone who appeared casual, yet in reality, he was hyper-aware of everything around him.

“Aunt Linda, I’m back!” Mark’s voice echoed through the house, loud and clear, as if he feared Mrs. Parker couldn’t hear him. Catherine, seated by the window, was startled when she heard a man’s voice from the front door. Her surprise deepened when she saw Sherlock stepping in beside the young man.

“Sherlock? What—what are you doing here?” Catherine’s voice faltered, her eyes narrowing in confusion.
“Sister, I’m worried about you,” Sherlock replied, his expression a masterful display of concern, his acting skills in full force. There was no trace of the usual coldness in his voice, only warmth and care that seemed uncharacteristic. Davis, standing next to Sherlock, nodded as if to confirm the story.
“He was standing in the bush outside, so I invited him in,” he added casually, as though this were a perfectly normal occurrence.

“Ahh, I see,” Mrs. Parker finally spoke, her voice tinged with amusement. “Well, Kath, this is my nephew, Mark Davis,” she continued, gesturing toward the young man standing next to Sherlock.
Catherine nodded slowly, her gaze briefly flicking toward Mark.
“So, Mark, has anything unusual been happening lately?” Sherlock asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp, watching for any signs of discomfort.

Mark hesitated briefly before shaking his head. “Well, not really,” he replied, though the slight shift in his posture told Sherlock he was lying. Mark had claimed earlier that he’d finished his deliveries and gone straight home, but the details of his story didn’t sit well with the detective.

As the investigation into the neighbourhood incident continued, Lestrade had been interviewing residents, and one neighbour in particular had overheard Mark in a heated phone argument with someone—about money. That alone was suspicious, but Sherlock’s mind kept returning to the other details. Mark had been seen loitering around the neighbourhood on multiple occasions, even when he wasn’t on duty. There was something about his presence that didn’t quite add up.

Catherine, sensing the growing tension between Sherlock and Mark, decided to break the silence, her voice cutting through the unease. “Alright, do either of you have an alibi for the time of the incident?”

Mark faltered, his usual calm demeanour cracking slightly under the pressure of the question. “I was at home after finishing my last package, which was Mrs Briggs,” he said, his voice sounding a bit too forced.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Parker, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent of suspicion swirling in the room, chimed in. “Oh, I was just here, working on my crochet. Mark arrived after I finished,” she said, smiling as if she hadn’t just inadvertently revealed something important.

After hearing their responses, Sherlock’s mind was racing as he pieced together the new information. Sherlock suddenly excused himself to use the bathroom. When he returned, Catherine stood up, thanked them for their time, and subtly glanced at Sherlock, signalling that it was time to leave. Sherlock picked up on her cue immediately, giving a discreet nod. He let his gaze linger on Mark and Mrs. Parker for a brief moment, as if memorising every detail, before following Catherine out of the house.

Once outside, Catherine turned to Sherlock and asked, “Do you think both of them are suspicious?”
“Not really,” Sherlock replied while adjusting his coat. “Well, Mrs. Parker does indeed love crochet. Just look at the room and the cardigan she was wearing. She’s not lying.”
Catherine looked surprised. “When did you go into her room?”
Sherlock replied with a hint of amusement, “When I went to the bathroom. I also took a quick look at Mark’s room. Don’t think I’m a pervert, please.”
Catherine laughed. “Ah, I see.”

Sherlock's expression turned serious as he continued,
“Mark’s room was a mess, which is unusual for someone who loves cleanliness. His bed and table were tidy, however I noticed job applications scattered around. His argument about money could reflect his desperation. It also explains why he has seen me hiding in the bush in the middle of the day instead of delivering packages. He probably lost his job. Quite interesting, don’t you think?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes!” Catherine replied enthusiastically. “I finally understand why John Watson enjoys solving cases with you.”

Sherlock smirked at Catherine's comment, a hint of amusement in his eyes. He wasn’t used to people sharing his excitement for solving cases, especially someone new. “Ah, yes, John. We’ve tackled quite a few cases together. Though, I must admit, he struggles to keep up with me sometimes.”

Catherine chuckled, “I’ll be sure to tell John all about this later.” Sherlock's smirk deepened as he looked at her with newfound respect. The case was far from solved, but he could already see that Catherine might prove to be a valuable ally.

Sherlock let a faint smile across his face, his usual aloofness softening slightly at Catherine's comment. Over the years, he had grown fond of John, despite the occasional frustration. He nodded in agreement and replied, "Yes, do that. He’s probably already anxious about my absence, as always."

Catherine sighed, a hint of sadness in her voice. “It’s a shame he’s busy with something else and can’t be by our side. But hey, you’ve got me.” She looked at Sherlock and gave him a playful wink.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her lightheartedness, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. With a mock pout, he feigned disappointment. “Oh, yes, how tragic that I’m stuck with you instead.”

But as he saw Catherine’s expression falter, he quickly realised his teasing might have come off wrong. His smirk faded, and he regretted his words immediately. “No, no, it’s not a bad thing. I was only joking. I suppose it’s not entirely terrible to have someone… less boring by my side.”

Catherine’s response was dry, “Oh, okay, I see,” she said, her tone lacking its earlier warmth.

Sherlock noticed the shift in her demeanour and mentally kicked himself for the poor attempt at humour. He stepped closer, his voice softer and more sincere. “I… I didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have said that. I apologise.”

Catherine’s expression softened, and she offered him a forgiving smile. “It’s okay, apology accepted.”

Sherlock let out a small sigh of relief, thankful she hadn’t taken his words to heart. “Right, the crime scene,” he said, his usual composed tone returning. “Let’s get back to the case at hand, shall we?” “Absolutely, Mr. Holmes,” Catherine agreed, ready to dive back into the investigation.

Chapter Text

After about twenty minutes, one of the police officers approached Sherlock and Catherine as he noticed them. He informed that Mr. Baker indeed had a history of mental illness. He had recently lost his job and was struggling with mental health issues, leading to paranoia and delusions.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed the officer’s words. The combination of Mr. Baker’s mental health issues and recent job loss immediately raised concerns in Sherlock’s mind. He mentally noted this new information, his mind working swiftly to process it.

“Thank you, officer,” Catherine said, turning to him. “By the way, do you know where Mr. Baker lives?” The officer provided her with the address but cautioned her against going there alone due to Mr. Baker’s dangerous state.

Sherlock listened attentively as the officer spoke, taking note of the address. He processed the warning with a sense of seriousness, aware of the risks involved in approaching someone with a known history of mental illness and dangerous behaviour.

As the officer finished, Sherlock glanced at Catherine, his concern evident. He didn’t vocalise his disapproval but allowed her to make her own decision.

“Okay, thank you again, officer,” Catherine said, before turning to Sherlock.
“Hmm, have you seen the inspector?” Catherine asked.
“Who? Oh, you mean Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, almost having forgotten about Inspector Lestrade again. He scanned the area but saw no sign of him.
“Strange, he’s not here,” Sherlock murmured, his brow furrowing.
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to wait for him,” Catherine said.
Sherlock nodded in agreement. As they waited for Lestrade, Sherlock and Catherine stood in thoughtful silence, occasionally glancing around for any sign of the inspector.

“While we wait, Catherine,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence, “let’s review what we’ve gathered so far. From the information we have, Mark’s financial desperation could indeed be a motive. However, Mrs. Parker’s alibi seems solid, given her passion for crochet, which is consistent with her testimony.”

Catherine nodded, absorbing the information. “That makes sense. So, you think Mark might be hiding something more than just a job loss?”

“Quite possibly,” Sherlock replied, his gaze fixed on the street. “We need to consider all angles. Mark's circumstances and behaviour suggest he might be more involved than he lets on. Lestrade’s input could provide additional insights or confirm our suspicions.”

As they continued to wait, Sherlock’s sharp eyes remained alert, and Catherine kept a keen ear open for any signs of the approaching inspector. The tension between them was palpable, each lost in their thoughts, yet united in their resolve to uncover the truth.

After hours of waiting, Catherine was on the verge of falling asleep from boredom when a voice suddenly broke the silence.

“What are you two doing here?” the voice asked, filled with a hint of surprise.

Sherlock turned to face the newcomer. “Where is Lestrade?” he inquired, his tone both curious and slightly irritated.

“Inspector Lestrade? Oh, he won’t be around here,” the officer replied with a shrug. “He’s currently at Bart’s Hospital morgue, reviewing the DNA data we collected earlier. Looks like you’ll need to come back tomorrow to speak with him.”

Sherlock’s expression hardened slightly, but he nodded in understanding. “Very well. We’ll return tomorrow. Thank you.”
As the officer walked away, Catherine let out a small sigh of relief. “That was a long wait. Well, what’s our plan until then?”

Sherlock glanced at her, his mind already shifting gears. “We’ll review the details we have and make any necessary observations. It’s important to stay ahead of the case. Besides, it gives us a bit more time to think through our findings and approach.”

Catherine nodded, her curiosity piqued. “Sounds like a plan. I’m looking forward to hearing what Lestrade has discovered.”
Sherlock gave a brief nod before leading the way. They left the scene, their minds already racing with thoughts and theories as they prepared for the next stage of their investigation.

Suddenly, as they walked down the street, Catherine had a thought. “Well, Mr. Holmes, do you mind if I head back home now? I’m really tired,” she said, faking a yawn despite the fact that it was only 8 p.m.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the yawn, clearly sceptical of her excuse. He knew she was likely concealing her true intentions but chose not to press the matter further. He simply nodded, masking his suspicion.

“Right, tired, of course. Well, it’s late. You probably should head back home and get some rest.”

“Okay, thank you, Mr. Holmes!” Catherine replied cheerfully. “See you tomorrow!” She then sprinted off as quickly as she could.

Sherlock’s gaze followed her as she disappeared into the distance, a frown forming on his face. Her sudden urgency to leave did not sit right with him, and he suspected she intended to visit Mr. Baker despite the officer's warning. Torn between following her and allowing her to proceed alone, Sherlock grappled with her impulsive and somewhat reckless behaviour.

As suspected, Catherine made her way to Mr. Baker’s house. Arriving there, she began inspecting the surroundings, carefully noting the house’s design. Despite its seemingly ordinary appearance, signs of neglect and disrepair were evident, suggesting Mr. Baker hadn’t been maintaining it properly. The darkened windows and the lack of any lights being on hinted that Mr. Baker might not be home, which only added to Catherine’s growing unease.

Catherine’s decision to enter Mr. Baker's yard was driven by an insatiable curiosity. She knew she didn’t have the key to the front door, so with determination in her eyes, she hurled her tote bag over the fence, followed suit by scaling the barrier with a nimbleness that belied her anxiety. Landing deftly in the overgrown, unkempt yard, she took a moment to catch her breath.

“Phew, I’m glad I wore jeans and my new sports shoes,” Catherine muttered to herself as she retrieved her tote bag from the ground. The yard was in a state of disarray, with dried leaves and scattered branches littering the ground, adding to the scene’s overall neglect.

As she carefully navigated through the mess, Catherine's eyes were drawn to an unusual feature amidst the overgrowth—a partially concealed underground basement entrance. It was half-buried under a tangle of ivy and debris, its rusty, padlocked door barely visible through the layers of neglect. The sight stirred an irresistible sense of curiosity within her.

Catherine stepped cautiously towards the entrance, her steps muffled by the thick carpet of dried leaves and twigs underfoot. The air was thick with the musty scent of damp earth and decay. Without any tools or gloves, Catherine felt the rough surface of the lock with her bare hands. She tried to pry it open, but the rusted metal resisted her attempts. She pushed and tugged, her fingers slipping on the slick, corroded surface. The lock was stubborn, its age and the elements having taken their toll on it.

Determined, Catherine pressed on, using her shoulder and body weight to apply extra force. Her hands were soon smeared with grime, and her fingernails dug into the rust as she strained against the stubborn lock. Every attempt seemed to make the lock more reluctant to yield, and her frustration mounted with each passing moment.

Suddenly, a faint noise from the front of the house broke her concentration. It was a soft, creaky sound, as if someone or something had moved inside. Her heart skipped a beat, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. Panic surged, and she knew she needed to act quickly.

In her rush to leave, Catherine stumbled over a loose brick hidden under the debris. She winced as her ankle twisted awkwardly, sending a sharp pain through her leg. She tried to steady herself but ended up scraping her hands on the rough, metal fence as she scrambled to climb over. As she hoisted herself up and over the fence, her clothes caught on the sharp edges, tearing slightly as she tumbled onto the ground on the other side.

Breathing heavily, Catherine picked up her bag, her body aching from the rough escape. Just then, she saw Sherlock approaching, a look of concern etched on his face. He rushed over, his eyes widening as he took in her injuries. “Are you alright? What happened?” he asked urgently.

Catherine, her breath coming in ragged gasps, looked up at him, grateful for his presence. “I… I was trying to get into the basement, but I heard a noise and got hurt climbing out,” she explained, showing him her scraped hands and bruised leg. Sherlock’s face softened with worry as he helped her to her feet, ready to offer support and investigate further.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed with concern, and his brow furrowed. “This is precisely why you shouldn’t come here alone,” he said, his tone tinged with frustration and worry. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this could be? Not only could you have hurt yourself, but you might have walked into something far more perilous.”

Sherlock’s face revealed a mix of worry and frustration. "I Catherine winced at his words, her own frustration mirroring his. “I understand, but I just really wanted to help you solve this case,” she admitted, her voice carrying a hint of self-reproach. “I thought if I could find something useful, it might make a difference. I didn’t consider that it could be this risky.”

Sherlock sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in exasperation. “Well, you’ve certainly demonstrated your determination,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “But you must be more cautious. You’re not just risking your own safety—you’re also complicating matters for both of us. Let’s focus on getting you patched up first, then we can reassess our approach.”

As he spoke, Sherlock carefully examined Catherine’s injuries, his fingers gently probing the scrapes and bruises. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration for her bravery, even if it had led her into unnecessary danger.

Sherlock sighed, his annoyance giving way to a mix of frustration and resignation. He knew Catherine meant well, but her impulsiveness and disregard for her own safety frustrated him.
“You’re really reckless, you know that?” Sherlock’s voice was a mixture of exasperation and concern. “You could have seriously hurt yourself, or worse.”

Catherine winced, her wounded leg throbbing painfully. She pouted slightly, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice edged with discomfort. “But can you stop scolding me?”

Sherlock’s expression softened as he noticed her pouting face and the blood still seeping from her injury. His irritation began to wane as he saw how vulnerable she looked. “Alright, I’ll stop scolding you… for now,” he conceded, his tone gentler. “But you have to promise me you won’t do anything so reckless again. It’s dangerous.”

“Okay, I promise you,” Catherine whispered, a touch of defiance in her tone as she added under her breath, “for this time.” Sherlock’s sharp eyes caught the subtle caveat in her whisper. He could almost read her thoughts but chose to let it slide for the moment. His primary concern was her injury. “Yes, just this once,” he said, shifting his focus. “Now, let’s have a look at that wound. How bad is it?”

Catherine glanced down at her leg and felt a wave of nausea as she took in the severity of the deep gash. The sight of the gaping cut made her head spin. Determined to stay composed, she tried to stand, but as soon as she put weight on her injured leg, a searing pain shot through it. She gasped, her balance faltering, and before she could recover, her knee buckled, sending her stumbling forward.

In an instant, Sherlock moved to catch her, his reflexes sharp and precise. As Catherine fell into him, her hands instinctively reached out, clutching at the fabric of his coat for support. The sudden closeness of their bodies, with her head resting briefly on his shoulder, was both unexpected and intimate. Sherlock’s arms wrapped securely around her waist and shoulder, his hold firm yet careful, as if handling something fragile.

The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them, their breaths mingling in the stillness. Sherlock’s grip was a mix of firmness and tenderness, a stark contrast to his usual detachment. For a fleeting moment, the tension between them was almost tangible, their close proximity heightening the intensity of the moment. Catherine’s heart raced as she realised the depth of their closeness, the vulnerability of the situation contrasting sharply with the usual cool professionalism of Sherlock Holmes.

As Catherine finally realised the situation, a flush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks, and she quickly tried to pull away, but her legs still felt weak beneath her. Sherlock, noticing her struggle, didn’t let go immediately, his protective hold ensuring she wouldn’t fall again. “It’s alright,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft, as he helped her regain her balance. “Just take it slow, we need to clean and bandage it up as soon as possible.”

“Do you have a bandage, then?” she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of hope and embarrassment.
Sherlock nodded, his expression serious as he inspected her injury more closely. “Yes, I always carry a basic first-aid kit when working on a case. One must be prepared for anything.”
He reached into his jacket and produced a small first-aid kit, expertly opening it and sorting through the contents to find what was needed to treat her wound.
“Wow, I didn’t think you’d carry something like that. I assumed you wouldn’t bother with your own wounds, or, you know…” Catherine replied.
Sherlock let out a soft chuckle, a trace of humour in his voice despite the situation. “Ah, you underestimate me, Catherine. I may appear reckless at times, but even I know the value of basic first aid. I’ve learned through experience that neglecting wounds can lead to unnecessary complications. It’s far better to have a first-aid kit at hand than to risk a serious infection.”

Catherine chuckled softly, a playful glint in her eyes. "I see. Well, do continue, 'Doctor' Holmes."

Sherlock's lips curved into a genuine smile at Catherine's attempt to lighten the mood. He shook his head slightly, clearly amused, before turning his attention back to her wound.

With careful precision, Sherlock cleaned the wound, applying antiseptic cream before bandaging it neatly. His movements were both gentle and deliberate, aimed at ensuring Catherine's injury was properly attended to. As Sherlock applying, Catherine watched him intently. There was something oddly compelling about the way he concentrated so deeply on the task at hand. Despite his usual aloofness, the moment felt unexpectedly intimate.

Sherlock, absorbed in his task, was aware of Catherine’s gaze. He glanced up occasionally, catching the intensity of her stare. Though he maintained a neutral expression, there was a subtle acknowledgment in his eyes. He chose not to comment, though he found her attention intriguing in a way he hadn’t expected.

When Catherine shifted her gaze to the street, the scene around them appeared calm and warm under the streetlights. The emptiness of the street, coupled with the soft, golden glow of the lights, created a surprisingly intimate atmosphere. Catherine’s thoughts wandered, and for a fleeting moment, she imagined the street as a romantic setting.
As Sherlock finished bandaging her wound and stood up, he sensed the change in the atmosphere. The quiet, warmly lit street now felt almost intimate. Observing Catherine lost in thought, he wondered if her contemplations mirrored his own. There was a silent hope in his mind that her thoughts were leaning towards something he had been pondering.

Catherine’s focus returned to Sherlock as she said, "Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were finished." She touched the bandage gently, wincing slightly at the pain.

Sherlock shook his head, a slight smile playing on his lips. "No need to apologise. I’m done with the bandage for now. Your injury should heal nicely as long as you keep it clean and take care of it."

He watched as Catherine gingerly touched the bandage, her expression showing discomfort. "I know it hurts, but it’s necessary. It’ll aid in your recovery." Catherine nodded, then asked, "Well, should we head off now, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded, his focus returning to its usual sharpness. Pushing away from the wall, he stood up straight. "Yes, it’s time to go. We’ve been here long enough, and it’s getting late." He glanced at Catherine, checking to ensure she was steady on her feet. "Can you manage to walk properly, or do you need any assistance?"

Catherine tried to stand up from the ground but was shaking and struggling to maintain her balance. “Well, I think I’m okay,” she said with a forced smile. Sherlock watched as Catherine attempted to stand and immediately noticed her struggle. His protective instincts kicked in, and he quickly moved to her side. “You’re far from okay. You can barely stand. Come on, lean on me.” He offered her a steadying arm, ready to support her weight if needed.

“Really? That’s so nice of you, Mr Holmes. Thank you!” Catherine replied with a playful tone. He wrapped an arm around her, providing support as she attempted to walk.
“Don’t mention it. Just focus on moving instead of mouthing off, alright? Let me know if you need to stop at any moment.”
“Oh, okay, Mr ‘Sarcastic,’” Catherine said, making a pouty face.Sherlock’s smirk widened, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he continued to tease her.
“Oh, so now it’s ‘Mr Sarcastic,’ is it? I quite like the sound of that. And honestly, why are you so surprised? You’ve seen firsthand how sarcastic I can be.”
Catherine chuckled. “John never told me you could be this… you know, funny? And no, I didn’t realise how sarcastic you are.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He hadn’t expected Catherine to describe him as ‘funny.’ “Oh, so John didn’t mention my sarcastic and comedic side, then? That’s not surprising. I don’t exactly go about being amusing all the time; it’s more of a selective talent that makes an occasional appearance.”

“Hmmm, okay, Mr ‘Mysterious’,” Catherine replied playfully. Sherlock chuckled at her response, a smirk returning to his lips.
“Oh, ‘Mr Mysterious,’ is it? You’re certainly full of delightful nicknames for me.”
“Yes,” Catherine laughed, “but to be honest, it’s a bit tiring calling you Mr Holmes all the time.”
Sherlock’s smirk widened at her admission. He secretly enjoyed the fact that Catherine found it tiresome to address him so formally. It felt almost intimate.

“Oh, so you’re growing weary of being so formal, are you? There’s a simple solution to that.”
“What’s that?” Catherine asked. “I don’t think I could just call you Sherlock since it’s only the first day we’ve met, I need to show some respect.”
Sherlock noticed the hesitation in Catherine’s voice, understanding that her politeness was partly due to the age difference. He chuckled, finding her manners endearing.
“Ah, I see you’re concerned about respect and formality. I appreciate that, but let me make this clear, you don’t need to be so formal all the time, especially when it’s just the two of us. You can call me Sherlock. There’s no need for ‘Mr Holmes’ all the time.”

“Okay… Sherlock,” Catherine replied, finding it a bit strange to use his first name.
Sherlock chuckled at her reaction, smirking as he enjoyed this moment of intimacy between them.

“Ah, I see it’s taking a bit of time to get used to calling me ‘Sherlock’ rather than ‘Mr Holmes’. I rather like how it sounds coming from you.”
“Do I have a weird accent when I say your name?” Catherine asked, looking at him with confusion.
Sherlock paused, studying her expression. He found her question rather endearing.
“Hmmm, no, I wouldn’t say your accent is odd when you say my name. It’s quite unique, and I rather like the way you say it. It has a certain… charm.”
“Everything has a certain charm for you, doesn’t it?” Catherine chuckled.
Sherlock laughed along with her, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I do find charm in many things. But your accent has a special allure.”

Catherine smiled, taking Sherlock’s comment as a compliment. “Well, my apartment is just around here. Thanks for helping me, Sherlock. See you tomorrow at your place! Goodnight!” She gently released his arm and began to walk away slowly, wincing slightly with each step due to her injury.

Sherlock watched Catherine make her way down the street, his gaze lingering on her retreating figure. There was a subtle mix of concern and admiration in his eyes. He cleared his throat and called after her, his tone softening.
“You’re welcome. Do take good care of yourself, I’ll see you tomorrow at my flat. Goodnight, Catherine.”

As Catherine walked away, Sherlock stood for a moment, watching her with a thoughtful expression. Once she was out of sight, he turned and headed back in the direction of his own residence, the evening’s events still swirling in his mind.

Chapter Text

The next morning, at 9 am, Catherine stood outside Sherlock’s door and knocked. Inside, Sherlock was seated in his familiar chair, a book in hand. Hearing the knock, he rose with a fluid, almost effortless motion, and crossed the room to the door. As he opened it, he saw Catherine standing there, looking alert and ready for the day.

“Good morning,” he greeted, looking ‘bored’ as usual. “You’re here rather early. Come in.”
“Good morning,” Catherine replied. “And it’s not early, Sherlock.” Catherine shakes her head with a small laugh.
“Ah, forgive me. I should’ve known you wouldn’t consider this early. My apologies,” he quipped, stepping aside to let her in.
As Catherine entered, she glanced around the room and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm, the living room’s a bit... chaotic without John Watson around, isn’t it?”
Sherlock chuckled softly at her observation, his gaze sweeping over the scattered papers and books. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “Without John’s relentless need for order, things do tend to get a bit untidy.”

He gestured towards the couch, inviting her to sit, his expression softening as he settled back into his usual chair. “Thank you,” Catherine said, easing herself into the couch. The morning light streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room, and for a moment, there was a comfortable, easy silence between them.“So, when do you want to head to the crime scene?” Catherine asked.

“Any moment, I suppose. Unless you have other matters to attend to, or else we can leave now,” he replied. Catherine shifted, wincing slightly. “Hmm... could you let me rest for a while? My leg’s still in pain.” Sherlock’s gaze dropped to her leg, noticing the subtle tension in her posture. He nodded.

“Of course. You should rest for a bit. Take your time. I’ll get you something for the pain, and we can head out once you’re feeling better.”
“Thanks so much,” Catherine said, her voice grateful.

Sherlock offered a faint smile, a quiet satisfaction in her appreciation, before he walked to the kitchen. A few moments later, he returned with painkillers and a glass of water, handing them to her.
“Here. Take these and rest for a bit. Let the medication do its work, and we’ll head to the crime scene once you’re up for it.”
Catherine stared at the pills, her expression betraying hesitation. “Oh, I hate pills so much…” she muttered under her breath.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, bemused. “You hate pills? Why? They’re just medication—nothing sinister. Especially considering your injury, you could use them.”
Catherine shifted uncomfortably, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I... can’t swallow pills.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly as he absorbed her confession. He leaned back, rubbing his temples confusedly, but his tone remained measured. “You can’t swallow them?” His eyes searched hers, half disbelieving. “It’s a small pill. It’ll help ease your pain. Why is it so difficult?”

“I just can’t, okay?” Catherine looked down, a touch of embarrassment colouring her cheeks.

Sherlock sighed, leaning back in his chair with a mixture of disbelief and amusement playing across his features. He had encountered many peculiar cases in his time, but this... was a first.
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “You’re telling me you can’t swallow one tiny pill, and you’ve no idea why?”

Catherine shrugged, her silence speaking volumes. Shaking his head, Sherlock sighed again but softened. “Alright, then. I’ll figure something out. But next time, you could have at least mentioned this little quirk of yours sooner.” He glanced over, the faint smirk returning to his face.

“Yea, yea, keep making fun of me, Sherlock Holmes,” Catherine replied. Sherlock sighed again, though the amusement in his eyes hadn’t entirely faded. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands as he gazed at her, seemingly unaware of her growing irritation.

“Trust me, the temptation is there, but I’ll resist—for now. It’s absurd, though, that you can’t swallow a simple pill. Have you always had this... let’s call it a phobia?”
“It’s not a phobia,” Catherine shot back, her voice clipped. “I just can’t swallow pills. Whatever, forget it.”
Without waiting for a response, she stood up abruptly, grabbing the pill and heading into the kitchen. Sherlock, caught off guard, watched her as she methodically crushed the pill and mixed it with water and drank it. His brows lifted in surprise as he processed her unconventional solution.

“Interesting. Instead of just swallowing the pill, you’ve chosen to pulverise it and mix it with water... creative. But also unnecessarily complex,” he said.

“Let me be, Mr Holmes,” Catherine retorted sharply, emphasising his surname as she shot him an annoyed glance.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her shift in tone, catching the subtle change in her mood. She’d reverted back to calling him “Mr Holmes”—a clear sign of her annoyance. He leaned back slightly, his gaze flickering with curiosity.
“Oh, so we’re back to 'Mr Holmes' now, are we? Very well, if that’s what you prefer.”
“Sure, Mr Holmes,” Catherine replied coolly, her voice adopting a distant, almost indifferent tone. “Let’s go now. I’m fine.”

Sherlock glanced at her again, noting the chill in her words. He could tell her irritation lingered, but chose to leave it unaddressed—for now. “As you wish,” he said calmly, grabbing his coat from the nearby chair.

They walked in silence down Baker Street, the usual sharp back-and-forth between them absent. Sherlock noticed Catherine’s stiff posture, the way she kept her gaze forward, but he said nothing as they made their way to the crime scene.

In Catherine’s mind, the silence between her and Sherlock was deafening. She had expected him to at least offer an apology during their walk, yet he remained stoically quiet. His silence only served to deepen her frustration, so she kept her thoughts to herself, stewing in the unspoken tension as they arrived at the crime scene.

“Here we are,” Sherlock said simply, his eyes already scanning the area, absorbing every detail like a machine set in motion. His mind was a whirl of observations, but he still hadn’t uttered a single word of acknowledgment to her feelings.

Without a word, Catherine ignored him and headed toward Inspector Lestrade, determined to hand over her phone about the notes she had gathered the previous day. If Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to talk, she wasn’t going to wait for him.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up as he noticed her purposeful stride toward Lestrade. A subtle frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, a mixture of disapproval and irritation. He preferred working alongside her, collaborating, yet here she was, walking off to share information with Lestrade. His lips tightened into a thin line, but he followed her in silence, still observing everything as they approached the inspector.

“Ah, Miss…?” Lestrade began, clearly not remembering her name.
“Catherine. Cath for short,” she answered smoothly.
“Miss Cath, right. Thank you for the information you’ve been providing. It’s been invaluable. We appreciate your help.”
Catherine smiled, her response warm despite the awkwardness of the previous night. “Not a big deal.”
Lestrade’s curiosity was piqued as he glanced at Catherine with a mix of admiration and intrigue. “I’m sorry to ask you this, Miss Cath, but how did you manage to collect all these details so effectively?”

Catherine chuckled softly, a hint of pride in her smile. “Oh, I have a JD and a PhD in law, so I suppose you could say I have a bit of a head start in understanding these things.”
Lestrade’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and a broad grin spread across his face. “Ah, I see. That would explain why you come across as so professional and insightful. It’s not every day we get someone with such expertise involved in a case.”
Catherine laughed, her earlier tension easing. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m a detective, but I do have a knack for noticing details. It’s just part of my course, I suppose.”
Lestrade nodded appreciatively, his respect for her growing. “It certainly shows. Your observations have been invaluable today.”

Sherlock stood slightly to the side, watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. The admiration in Lestrade’s voice didn’t escape his notice, and while he respected Catherine’s ability to gather details, the jealousy that simmered within him was unmistakable. He didn’t like being left out of the conversation, nor did he appreciate the growing camaraderie between Catherine and Lestrade. He clenched his jaw, resisting the temptation to cut into their dialogue.

Catherine noticed Sherlock’s strange expression from the corner of her eye but chose to ignore it, still too annoyed to care about his moods. After speaking with Lestrade, she moved toward the yard, the tension of the moment slipping away as her attention focused on something else.

Her eyes landed on the slightly ajar back door of the adjacent building, and just outside, a set of fresh, muddy footprints caught her attention. They were faint, but the moist earth had imprinted the outline of someone’s boots—someone who had passed through the yard recently. Her pulse quickened as she realised where the tracks led.

“Inspector! Sherlock! Over here!” she called out, beckoning them to come closer. The others rushed to her side, their interest piqued.

She knelt down at a slow pace, examining the footprint more closely. The mud was still damp, indicating that it had been left within the last few hours. The size and depth of the print suggested a heavy, well-built man—perhaps Mr. Baker, whose house was just beyond the back gate. The door stood slightly ajar, as if whoever had left the print was in too much of a hurry to close it fully behind them.

“This footprint... it’s fresh,” Catherine pointed out, her voice calm but sharp. “And it leads directly to Mr. Baker’s house. We should check it out.”
Sherlock’s gaze sharpened as he crouched down beside her, studying the print with intense interest. “Interesting,” he murmured. His eyes flicked toward the ajar door, then back to the footprint. "It’s a solid lead, no doubt. It aligns with the timeline of the incident. Someone entered through here after the crime. Possibly Baker himself—or someone with access to his house."

Lestrade leaned over, nodding thoughtfully. “Good eye, Miss Cath. We’ll follow the trail. Baker’s been on our radar, but this... this is new.”

Sherlock stood, brushing dirt from his hands. He glanced sideways at Catherine, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Despite their earlier tension, he couldn’t help but admire her instincts. "Shall we?" he said quietly, gesturing toward the door.

Catherine met his gaze, her annoyance briefly forgotten as the mystery unfolded before them. "Lead the way, Mr Holmes," she said, her tone light but teasing, as they prepared to uncover the truth hidden behind Mr. Baker's door.

As everyone gathered at the back door, the sound of the neighbour's dog barking echoed through the yard once again. Its constant barking was beginning to irritate some of the officers, but Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the noise, his mind working through the possible reasons behind the animal's distress.

Inspector Lestrade, noticing the commotion, glanced over at the dog and then at Sherlock. “The owner said the dog’s been barking like this for days now. They’ve got no idea what’s causing it.”

Sherlock folded his arms, staring thoughtfully in the direction of the dog. “Dogs don’t bark for no reason,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “They react to unfamiliar sights, smells, or sounds. This one might be sensing something—or someone—that’s been around.”

His gaze flicked to the ajar back door and the fresh footprint leading toward Mr. Baker’s house. The pieces of the puzzle began to shift in his mind, though he couldn’t quite see the full picture yet. Still, the barking was a clue, one that couldn’t be ignored.

Before Sherlock could say more, one of the investigators approached Lestrade, her face a mix of concern and urgency. “Sir, we’ve just received a report about Mr. Baker. He was recently spotted purchasing large amounts of cleaning supplies—heavy-duty trash bags, bleach, industrial-strength cleaner. The shopkeeper recognised him and thought it was odd, considering Baker lives alone.”

Lestrade frowned deeply, his attention fully shifting to this new information. "Cleaning supplies? Trash bags? Right before a murder? That’s far too much of a coincidence."

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with intrigue as he glanced between Lestrade and the investigator. “No, it’s not a coincidence. It's preparation. Baker was covering his tracks—literally.”

Catherine, who had been listening closely, furrowed her brow. “So, Baker might be the one behind this? But what would make him so desperate to clean up like that?”

Sherlock turned to her, his tone calm but sharp, as though he were already piecing it together. “If Baker had something to hide—blood, fingerprints, evidence—it would explain his frantic cleaning. He might have hoped the trash bags were enough to dispose of whatever incriminated him. That footprint leading to his house could be the final piece.”
Lestrade nodded, already calling his officers into action. “Right, we’ll need to bring Baker in for questioning immediately. I want his house searched—top to bottom.”

Sherlock’s gaze drifted back to the barking dog. The noise grated on his nerves, but now it made sense. “Lestrade, wait,” he said suddenly, holding up a hand. “I think we’re missing something. The dog—it’s been barking constantly in one direction, hasn’t it?”

Catherine's keen observations led her to piece together the crucial details. Her mind raced with the connections she had made, each new piece of information fitting into place like a puzzle. Turning to Inspector Lestrade, she spoke with a newfound urgency.

“This all points towards the possibility that Mrs. Briggs could be in the basement where I found the muddy footprint yesterday,” Catherine said firmly. “Inspector Lestrade, I’m really sorry to say this, but my instinct tells me that Mrs. Briggs is in the underground basement of Mr. Baker’s house.”

Lestrade looked at Catherine, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. “Are you sure, Miss Cath?”

“I am,” Catherine replied confidently. “The footprint leads to this house, and considering the recent purchases by Mr. Baker, it aligns with the possibility that Mrs. Briggs might be kept in the basement. We need to investigate immediately.”

Sherlock, who had been quietly observing the exchange, gave Catherine an approving nod. He understood the gravity of the situation and knew that time was of the essence.

Lestrade wasted no time. “Right, let’s move quickly. We need to check Mr. Baker’s basement.” The team quickly made their way to Mr. Baker’s house.

As they approached, the tension in the air was palpable. The investigators moved swiftly, bypassing the dog that continued to bark frantically, and headed towards the back door.

Sherlock led the way, his mind already racing through the potential scenarios. He glanced at Catherine, noting her resolute expression, and felt a surge of respect for her deductive skills. When they reached the basement door, Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged a brief, intense look before Sherlock took hold of the handle and opened it. The staircase leading down to the basement was dimly lit, adding to the ominous atmosphere.

The team descended into the basement, their flashlights cutting through the darkness. As they reached the bottom, Sherlock’s sharp eyes scanned the area for any signs of Mrs. Briggs. There, in a corner of the basement, they found her. Mrs. Briggs lay motionless on the cold floor, her body surrounded by the remnants of Mr. Baker’s cleaning supplies. The scene was as Catherine had feared—tragic and unsettling. Lestrade quickly moved to Mrs. Briggs’ side, checking for vital signs. After a moment, he looked up with a heavy heart. “I’m afraid she’s gone. But Catherine, your instincts were right. We would have never found her if it weren’t for your observations.”

Catherine nodded, though her expression remained tense, frustration clearly simmering beneath the surface. She seemed distant, lost in her thoughts. Sherlock, ever observant, took notice of her silence. It wasn’t like Catherine to be this quiet, and he could sense the emotional toll the situation was taking on her.

Without a word, Sherlock gently tugged at the sleeve of Catherine's coat, a subtle gesture to pull her away from the immediate chaos of the investigation. He led her to the side, where they could both stand back, momentarily removed from the centre of the scene. As they stood together, Sherlock's eyes flickered over the unfolding events in front of them, but his mind was partly elsewhere—focused on Catherine.

Though Sherlock was known for his cold, clinical approach to most cases, something about this one felt different. He had always respected Catherine’s abilities and her sharp mind, but now, watching her grapple with the gravity of the situation, he found himself appreciating her even more deeply. There was something in the way she carried the weight of the case, determined yet clearly affected, that resonated with him.

For a brief moment, his professional detachment faltered. This case was personal now, not just because of the mystery they were solving, but because of Catherine. He could see how much it was weighing on her, and while he rarely expressed his emotions, the connection between them felt stronger in that shared silence.

Sherlock’s gaze softened as he glanced sideways at her, the usual sharpness in his eyes momentarily replaced by something gentler. He wanted to say something—reassure her, perhaps—but words escaped him. For now, he settled for standing by her side, letting his presence speak for itself.

In the quiet confines of the hospital corridor, Catherine sat on the floor, her back resting against the cold wall. The weight of the case, the loss of Mrs. Briggs, and the emotional turmoil felt unbearable. As she hugged her knees, her sobs were soft but persistent, the burden of missed opportunities pressing heavily on her heart.

Sherlock stood beside her, his usually unflappable demeanour showing signs of rare softness. He observed her quietly, sensing the deep-seated guilt and sadness that she struggled to contain. His instincts, often tuned to solving mysteries, now aimed to offer some semblance of comfort. “I know it’s difficult,” he said finally, his voice more gentle than usual. “But you can’t blame yourself. You did everything you could under the circumstances. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, things are simply beyond our control.”

Catherine looked up, her eyes red and wet with tears. “Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate your words,” she managed through her sobs. Sherlock gave a small, acknowledging nod, his usually impassive face softened by a rare hint of empathy. “You’re welcome. It’s crucial to remember that we can’t save everyone, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Every effort counts.”

Catherine wiped her tears away and sighed deeply, her gaze turning distant as she stared into space. “Sometimes, even heroes can’t save the whole world, right?” she said quietly, her voice tinged with resignation.

Sherlock glanced at her, his expression reflective. Her words resonated with him, echoing the weight of his own unresolved cases and the cases that had slipped through his fingers. He looked away, his eyes following an indeterminate point in the distance, his thoughts a swirling mix of empathy and contemplation.

“Yes, you’re right,” he said slowly, his voice carrying the weight of his own experiences. “Even heroes, even detectives, have their limits. We can’t save everyone. We can only try our best, and sometimes, despite our best efforts, it still isn’t enough.”

Chapter Text

After days of being deeply engrossed in a case that John Watson has been settled with, Sherlock Holmes found himself struggling to keep his thoughts on the investigation. Despite his focus, his mind kept drifting to Catherine. Her absence and the memory of their last conversation weighed heavily on him. He grappled with the desire to check on her while trying to respect her need for space.

On a rare break from his case, Sherlock wandered through the city, his steps aimless. His usual preoccupation with solving puzzles and following clues took a back seat to an unusual concern for Catherine’s well-being. It was a strange feeling for him—this unexpected worry seemed almost intrusive.

As he roamed the streets under a cloudy sky, Sherlock’s attention was drawn to a quaint coffee shop. Although it was an ordinary place, something made him look inside. To his surprise, he saw Catherine sitting at a corner table. What was even more surprising was that she was not alone — seated across from her was Mycroft, Sherlock’s older brother.

This sight stirred a mix of emotions in Sherlock. He was taken aback to see Catherine with Mycroft, and the encounter felt both unexpected and unsettling. Sherlock’s curiosity grew stronger, and he felt a sudden urge to understand what was happening between them.

Sherlock’s initial reaction was a mix of surprise and irritation. Mycroft, with his usual air of effortless superiority, seemed to be engaged in conversation with Catherine. The sight of them together, sharing what appeared to be a congenial moment, stirred something within Sherlock—a sense of intrusion and unspoken disapproval.
Inside the coffee shop, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his expression a blend of mild amusement and genuine interest. “Miss Catherine, I hear you’ve managed to solve a case that even my rather inept brother couldn’t crack at first.”

Catherine, her tone light and relaxed, took a leisurely sip of her latte before responding. “Oh, it wasn’t really much of a challenge. Sherlock left it for me because it was too easy for him. It wasn’t that hard, to be honest.”

Mycroft chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with an almost paternal pride. “I see. Well, it seems you have quite a knack for this sort of work.” Sherlock, now fully intrigued and slightly annoyed, pushed open the door to the coffee shop and stepped inside. His presence was subtle yet commanding, his gaze fixed firmly on Catherine and Mycroft. As he approached their table, his mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions—part curiosity, part irritation.

“Hello, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, his tone clipped but not unfriendly. “Catherine. I didn’t realise you were meeting with my brother,” he continued. Mycroft’s eyes flickered with a knowing glint as he acknowledged Sherlock’s arrival. “Ah, Sherlock. We were just discussing your latest case. It seems you’ve left quite an impression on Miss Catherine.”

Catherine looked up, her expression a mixture of surprise. “Sherlock. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Sherlock nodded slightly, his gaze shifting between Catherine and Mycroft. “It appears I’ve stumbled into an unexpected reunion. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Catherine shook her head, a faint smile touching her lips. “No, not at all. We were just chatting.”

Mycroft leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Catherine with an intensity that belied his usually composed demeanour. “Well, Ms. Catherine, I must say your observational skills are truly impressive. It would be a waste to let such talent go unutilized. How would you feel about working for the English government? I’m certain your abilities could be put to exceptional use.”

Catherine paused, stirring her coffee absentmindedly, her expression thoughtful but resolute. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Mycroft, but I don’t think I’m suited for a government position. I prefer to work in a more independent capacity.”

Sherlock watched as Catherine’s refusal seemed to ripple through the conversation. Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, clearly taken aback by her decision. For a brief moment, the room was thick with unspoken questions and hidden motivations.

Sherlock’s lips tightened into a thin line as he processed her response. Despite his initial shock at finding Catherine with Mycroft, he felt a surprising wave of relief. The idea of her becoming entangled with governmental affairs wasn’t something he had envisioned, and her firm rejection of the offer seemed to bring a sense of reassurance.

Mycroft, momentarily thrown off by Catherine’s decision, managed to regain his composure quickly. “I see. Well, I respect your choice, Miss Catherine. It’s a pity, really. Talent like yours deserves to be recognized.”

Sherlock, observing Mycroft’s reaction, felt a renewed sense of determination. He stepped closer to the table, casting a glance at Catherine before addressing both her and his brother. “It seems we’ve had an enlightening discussion. Catherine, if you’re ready, perhaps we could continue our conversation elsewhere? And Mycroft, thank you for your… well, unexpected offer.”

Mycroft, clearly intrigued by the dynamics between the two, gave a nod of understanding. “Very well. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Catherine. Sherlock, I trust you’ll keep me informed of any further developments.” With that, Mycroft excused himself, leaving the coffee shop with a final glance back at the pair. Sherlock turned his attention back to Catherine, his gaze softening as he looked at her.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked, his tone more gentle than before. “I’d like to talk more, if you’re up for it.” Catherine met his gaze, a flicker of gratitude mixed with the earlier irritation. “Sure, Sherlock. Let’s go.” As they left the coffee shop, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief mingled with curiosity. The day’s events had unfolded in unexpected ways, but he was determined to understand more about Catherine and perhaps mend the unspoken rift between them.

Sherlock sensed Catherine's gaze, feeling her eyes meticulously scanning him from head to toe. Despite his attempt to maintain his composure, he couldn't completely suppress the flicker of curiosity and something deeper that stirred within him. His exterior remained impassive, but internally, he grappled with the burgeoning emotions that her scrutiny evoked.

"So, what do you want to talk about?" Catherine's voice cut through the silence as they walked down the street, her tone tinged with curiosity.

Sherlock hesitated, torn between his usual reticence and the urge to address the matter directly. He steeled himself, gathering his thoughts with a noticeable effort. As he took a step closer to her, their gazes locked. For a fleeting moment, his usually sharp eyes revealed a hint of vulnerability that he typically kept hidden.

“I wanted to talk about something I’ve been thinking about," Sherlock began, his voice steady but with an undertone of hesitation. "About you." Catherine raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Hmm, you mean you’ve been thinking about me these days?"

Sherlock let out an involuntary scoff, his cool demeanour momentarily faltering. He looked away, trying to regain his composure before meeting her gaze again. There was a trace of annoyance in his expression, but it was laced with an undercurrent of something else—something more complicated.

“Don’t be absurd. That’s not what I was going to say,” he retorted, though his tone lacked its usual sharp edge.
“Then what were you going to say?” Catherine asked, her curiosity piqued.

Sherlock hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as he struggled to articulate his thoughts. His gaze lingered on Catherine for a moment before shifting away, revealing a rare flicker of uncertainty in his usually confident demeanour. He took a deep breath, his voice unusually soft.

His tone betrays a hint of vulnerability “I wanted to talk about... us. About what I think about y-” Before Sherlock could continue, Catherine winced in pain, a groan escaping her lips as her leg injury flared up. The sudden change in her demeanour caught him off guard.

Sherlock's eyes softened with concern as he observed her discomfort. Without a moment's hesitation, he glanced around and spotted a nearby bench in the park.

“There's a bench right there. We can talk there. Would you like me to support you?” he offered, his voice gentle and uncharacteristically kind.

Catherine looked up, surprised by his unexpected offer. “Uh, okay. Thank you.” Sherlock moved closer, taking her arm with a careful, supportive touch. He wrapped it around his shoulder, allowing her to lean on him as he guided her towards the bench. His touch was light yet reassuring, a stark contrast to his usual detached manner. Once she was seated, he took his place beside her, his gaze fixed on her with a blend of concern and determination.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock glanced between Catherine and the ground, his usual confidence giving way to an unusual hesitance. The moment was charged with unspoken emotions as he finally gathered the courage to continue.
“I... I wanted to talk about how I feel about you,” Sherlock began, his voice softening further.About our connection and what it means to me. Our interactions have been... significant. I just thought it was time to be honest about my feelings.”

The words hung in the air, a significant departure from Sherlock’s usual directness. The park around them seemed to fade into the background as he awaited Catherine's response, the weight of his admission palpable in the quiet space between them.

“Our interactions. Our conversations. I’ve grown fond of them. Our…” Sherlock hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. “… friendship,” he finished, his usual confidence faltering.
“Friendship, hmm, interesting…” Catherine replied, her tone reflecting both curiosity and amusement.

Sherlock’s expression shifted to one of defensiveness, his irritation barely concealed. “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘interesting’?”
“Guess, Sherlock,” she said with a playful tone.
Sherlock looked at her incredulously, his frustration evident. He let out a frustrated sigh before responding, his voice rough. “Fine. I’ll take a guess. Perhaps you found it… unexpected? Surprising?”
“Mhmm, yes and… no,” Catherine replied, her voice laced with a hint of mischief.

Sherlock’s annoyance became more pronounced. His voice sharpened, teetering on the edge of irritation. “Yes, obviously. You’re being intentionally vague and cryptic, and it’s irritating.”
Catherine, clearly taken aback, responded with genuine surprise. “What? I’m just joking around. Since the first day I met you, you’ve seemed to make me feel unhappy. You haven’t even tried to comfort me or apologise.”

Sherlock’s face darkened at her words. He opened his mouth to defend himself but faltered. Her words struck a nerve, and he struggled to find a retort. There was a tense silence as he wrestled with his emotions, unable to meet her gaze.

Sherlock watches Catherine walk away, his thoughts racing. Her words have sliced through him like a knife, hitting a nerve he didn't know he had. His usual composure is shattered, revealing a hint of vulnerability and regret beneath the surface. He wants to call out to her, to stop her, but something holds him back. In a rare moment of vulnerability, he stands there helplessly, watching Catherine leave, a strange mixture of emotions tormenting him.

As Catherine reached her apartment, she felt an overwhelming need to discuss her concerns about Sherlock with someone who might understand. She quickly composed a message and sent it to John Watson. Almost immediately, John’s phone buzzed with the incoming text from Catherine. He opened it with a sense of curiosity and concern.
C: “Hai John, would you mind if I discuss something about Sherlock's behaviour? ”

John, taken aback by the text, quickly typed out a reply, his concern growing.

J: “Hey Catherine, has anything happened to Sherlock? Do you want to come over so we can talk about this? ”
C: “I will tell you the details when I meet you. But do I talk to you or both of you? ”
J: “It would be better if you come over and talk to me first. We can figure this out. ”
C: “Right, where and when should I meet you up? ”
J: “Meet me tomorrow, at The Corner café, located in the heart of London. ”
C: “Abit far so might be there around 12.”
J: “Alright, see you soon.”

The next day at 12 o’clock, John arrived at The Corner Café, a charming spot nestled in the heart of London. He ordered a cup of tea and settled into a quiet corner, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of Catherine and Sherlock. A few minutes later, Catherine walked into the café. Her eyes quickly scanned the room until she spotted John sitting at the back. She gave him a small, appreciative smile and made her way to his table. Taking a seat across from him, she looked at John with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Thanks for coming, Catherine,” John said, his tone warm but laced with seriousness.
“Not a big deal, John, ” she replied.
“So, why did you ask to meet up? ” John inquired, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of tension.
Catherine took a deep breath, her expression turning serious. She looked at John with earnest eyes.
"I wanted to talk about Sherlock. About his personality, and how it's affecting me. I've noticed the way he's been around me, and it's..." she pauses, choosing her words carefully "it's not exactly the easiest thing to deal with."

John’s brow furrowed slightly as he listened, his expression a blend of concern and curiosity. He hadn’t expected this conversation to take such a personal turn, but knowing Sherlock as he did, he wasn’t entirely surprised. He leaned forward slightly, his voice soft yet attentive.

“I understand,” John replied, his tone filled with empathy. “Sherlock can be... difficult, to say the least. He’s brilliant, no doubt, but he doesn’t always know how to handle people, especially when emotions are involved. Has something changed between the two of you?”

Catherine hesitated for a moment, her fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the table as she thought about how to explain. She was never one to speak openly about her feelings, but the situation with Sherlock had been weighing on her heavily, and she needed someone to confide in. John, with his steady and understanding nature, seemed the perfect choice.

“It’s complicated,” she began, her voice soft but steady. “Sherlock... he’s brilliant, no doubt about it. I admire his mind, his dedication to the work. But when it comes to... people, emotions... he’s either completely oblivious, or he just doesn’t care.”

John nodded slowly, understanding where she was coming from. “He struggles with those things, yeah. But I’ve always thought that’s just... well, Sherlock being Sherlock.”

“That’s part of it,” Catherine agreed. “But lately, it feels like he’s been acting differently around me. One minute, he’s distant, cold, like he couldn’t care less if I’m around. But then, out of nowhere, he’s... I don’t know, protective? Almost like he’s afraid of pushing me away, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to let me get too close.”

John frowned slightly, his brows knitting together in thought. “That sounds like Sherlock alright. He’s never been good with emotions, and I doubt he even realises what he’s doing. But it’s affecting you, isn’t it?”

Catherine let out a small sigh, nodding. “Yes. I feel like I’m constantly on edge, like I don’t know where I stand with him. One moment, I think maybe he... maybe he feels something, and the next, he’s shutting me out completely. I’m not asking for him to be someone he’s not, but... it’s exhausting. I don’t know how to navigate this.”

John studied her for a moment, his expression softening. He knew Sherlock better than anyone—knew how difficult he could be, how complicated his relationships were. But he also knew that Sherlock wasn’t heartless, even if he struggled to show it.

“Catherine,” John said carefully, “Sherlock’s not exactly the most emotionally intelligent person, but he does care in his own way. He’s probably just as confused as you are. He’s never been good at dealing with... well, feelings. If he’s acting torn, it’s likely because he’s scared of losing you.”

Catherine blinked, taken aback by John’s words. “You think he’s afraid?”

John nodded, leaning forward slightly. “I do. Sherlock’s used to being alone, keeping people at arm’s length. But you... you’ve managed to get closer to him than most people ever do, like I do. And that scares him, even if he won’t admit it. He’s probably trying to figure out how to keep you in his life without losing control of the situation.”

Catherine swallowed, her mind spinning as she processed what John was saying. It made sense, in a way—Sherlock’s erratic behaviour, his constant push and pull. But still, it didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
“Hmmm, so what do you want me to do, John?” Catherine asked, her tone a mix of curiosity. John leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowing thoughtfully. “For starters, I was wondering if you’d be willing to give Sherlock another chance. I know he’s been difficult to deal with, but he’s not trying to be intentionally hurtful. He’s just… out of his depth when it comes to emotions. Would you be willing to try and be patient with him, try to understand where he’s coming from?”

“Okay, so do you want to call him over?” Catherine suggested. John nodded, pulling out his phone. “Good idea. I’ll give him a call. Wait here; I’ll be right back.” John dialled Sherlock’s number and stepped a little away from the table, his voice lowered as he spoke into the phone. John returned to the table after a few minutes, a small frown creasing his forehead.

“Sherlock’s being stubborn,” he said, his frustration evident. “He’s refusing to come. He says he doesn’t see the point in sitting in a café and talking about emotions like a bunch of sentimental idiots.”
“You didn’t tell him that I would be here?” Catherine asked, her voice a mix of surprise and irritation.
John shook his head, a hint of annoyance in his expression. “No, I left that part out. I knew he’d refuse outright if he knew. He’s not exactly keen on facing this situation.”
Catherine sighed, her frustration evident. “So what now?”

John considered for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “It seems we’ll need to try a different approach. If Sherlock won’t come here, maybe you should go to him. If he’s not willing to come out, perhaps meeting him where he’s comfortable might work better.”

Catherine nodded, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. “Okay, I’ll head over to Baker Street then. Let’s go John.”

John offered a half-smile, but his expression was apologetic. “I’d come with you, but I’ve got a few things to take care of that can’t wait. I’m really sorry, Catherine. You’ll have to do this on your own.”

Catherine paused, taken aback for a brief moment, but quickly masked her surprise with a soft, understanding smile. “I see. No worries, John. I appreciate the support regardless.”

John’s supportive gaze met hers, his tone warm yet firm. “You’ve got this, Catherine. It’s not going to be easy—nothing ever is with Sherlock—but if anyone can navigate his labyrinth of emotions, it’s you. Just be patient, and don’t back down.”

Her heart was pounding now, though she masked her nerves with a quick grin. “Thanks, John. I’ll need all the luck I can get.”

With that, Catherine stood up, collecting her things and slinging her bag over her shoulder. John gave her a final reassuring smile as she turned to leave the café, her footsteps purposeful, though tinged with a hint of apprehension.

As she walked toward Baker Street, a mix of determination and apprehension filled her. She hoped that this time, she might finally break through Sherlock’s emotional barriers and bring some clarity to their strained interactions.

During her way to Baker Street

J: “Are you on the way ?”
C: “Yes, why? ”
J: “Just making sure you are safe.”

As Catherine was about to reply, she was suddenly ambushed. A man, hidden in the shadows, approached her swiftly. Before she could react, he administered a drug, rendering her unconscious.

A few moments later, John noticed the delay in Catherine’s response and felt a twinge of unease. His brow furrowed as he stared at his phone, a sinking feeling growing in his chest.
J: “Catherine? Are you okay? You didn’t reply? ”

When there was no immediate response, John’s concern deepened. He quickly called her phone, his mind racing with worry. The line rang, but there was no answer. John’s heart pounded as he decided to act. Something was clearly wrong, and he needed to find out what.

John was midway through typing a message to Sherlock, his anxiety mounting with each passing second.
J: “Sherlock, I’m getting really worried—”
Before he could finish, his phone buzzed sharply, causing him to stop. The screen lit up with a new message. John’s heart skipped a beat as he saw the name flash across the screen: Catherine. But something felt... off.
C: “Hello, Dr. John Watson and my dear ‘friend’ Sherlock Holmes. I have a challenge for both of you. Solve the mystery of the Vanishing Blueprint, and you’ll find her. Fail, and she disappears forever. —The Mystery.”
The message continued, now laden with disturbing details:
C: “Last night, TS Company—an advanced research facility working on groundbreaking energy technology—was broken into. A vital blueprint for a revolutionary energy source was stolen. This blueprint, once patented, could change the global energy market forever. Investigate the facility for more clues. You have limited time. —The Mystery.”
John’s pulse quickened as he re-read the message. The threat was clear: Catherine’s life was at stake, and whoever was behind this had set the stage for a high-stakes game. His mind raced. Time was running out.

His breath quickened as he fumbled for his phone, trying to call her, but the line rang out, unanswered. Dread settled like a stone in his gut.

"Come on, Catherine, pick up," he muttered under his breath, the empty silence on the other end only heightening his anxiety.

When the call went to voicemail, he cursed under his breath and immediately fired off a message to Sherlock, his fingers trembling as he typed.

J: “Emergency. TS Company. Now.”
His fingers trembled as he sent the message, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. There was no room for hesitation. Catherine’s life—and perhaps something far larger—depended on them solving this mystery.

At Baker Street, Sherlock had been lounging in his usual lethargic manner, his mind half-occupied with an obscure chemistry article he’d been reading to stave off boredom. The sound of his phone vibrating on the table pulled him out of his half-hearted reverie, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips.

“What is it now, John?” he muttered, slightly annoyed. But when he saw the notification from John, his irritation evaporated in an instant.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, scanning the brief message with lightning speed. Two words, but their weight was unmistakable. Emergency. Sherlock’s pulse quickened, his mind snapping into sharp focus. He shoved aside his earlier frustration, rising to his feet in one fluid motion as his brain instantly began calculating the quickest route to the TS Company.

The TS Company loomed ahead as they arrived. Its sleek, modern facade was a stark contrast to the urgency and tension radiating from the detectives. John and Sherlock exchanged determined glances before plunging into the investigation, the fate of Catherine hanging precariously in the balance. John’s phone buzzed once more. He quickly glanced at the screen. Another message from “Catherine.”

C: “You’ve got 24 hours, good luck my ‘friends’.”

John’s heart pounded in his chest as he read the message aloud. The looming deadline felt like a noose tightening around them.
Sherlock’s expression hardened, his usual detached demeanour replaced with an intensity John had only seen on the most high-stakes of cases. His jaw clenched, eyes flaring with determination.

“Twenty-four hours to find the blueprint and save her,” Sherlock muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “We can’t afford to waste a single second.”

With that, Sherlock immediately started scanning the building’s exterior, his eyes darting over every detail. The TS Company, a cutting-edge facility with its sleek metallic facade, hinted at modernity, but it also posed potential security vulnerabilities—vulnerabilities Sherlock was certain their mystery culprit had exploited.

The large glass doors slid open with a quiet whoosh as they stepped inside. The interior was sterile and pristine, with polished floors that reflected the fluorescent lights above. John followed close behind Sherlock, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on his shoulders. Every step they took echoed in the almost unnervingly quiet lobby. The countdown has begun, and failure wasn’t an option.

Chapter Text

“Twenty-four hours to find the blueprint and save her… We can’t waste any time.”

Sherlock’s gaze swept the vast, modern space of TS Company as his mind immediately began to catalogue every detail, calculating potential leads. The ticking clock of Catherine’s safety weighed heavily on both him and John, pushing them forward without hesitation.

John, ever the pragmatist, approached the reception desk, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “We need to speak to the CEO immediately.” The staff member glanced up, her expression faltering slightly. “I’m afraid the CEO isn’t available. He isn’t in the building at the moment.”

Sherlock, standing just behind John, arched an eyebrow. He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as they bore into the receptionist. “Not in the building, you say? I’d very much appreciate more precise information. Where exactly is he?”

The receptionist shifted uncomfortably under Sherlock’s piercing stare. “Well… it’s not that he’s not here, it’s just—he’s dealing with company financial issues in his office. He asked not to be disturbed.”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a tight, knowing smile. “His office, then. And where would that be?”

“The highest level,” the receptionist replied, her voice dropping to a whisper, “but please, don’t mention I told you. He doesn’t like… interruptions.” Sherlock’s gaze softened with a hint of satisfaction. “We won’t breathe a word.”

With a curt nod to John, Sherlock strode towards the lift, his coat sweeping dramatically behind him as they headed to the highest floor. John's instincts kicked in as he caught Sherlock's purposeful glance—there was something off about the CEO’s ‘financial concerns.’

The lift opened onto a long, empty corridor that led to a single, imposing door. Sherlock’s pace slowed as he approached, his senses on high alert. “One room… odd for an executive office, don’t you think?” John nodded, hand subtly moving towards his pocket, preparing for the unexpected. Sherlock’s hand hovered over the door handle.

“Stay behind me, John,” Sherlock whispered, his tone uncharacteristically serious, as he slowly pushed the door open. The room inside was plunged in darkness. The only light came from the faint city glow filtering through half-drawn blinds. It appeared abandoned, eerily still. Sherlock’s sharp eyes scanned every shadowed corner, his brow furrowed in thought. “Strange. For a man who insists he’s working, it appears as though no one’s been here in quite some time.”

John moved cautiously toward a large mahogany desk at the centre of the room. Just as his hand reached the edge of the table, a figure darted out from beneath it, causing him to startle back, hand instinctively raised.

“What the—!” John blurted, his heartbeat quickening.

Sherlock moved swiftly, positioning himself between John and the figure. A slight smirk flickered across his face, more amused by John's reaction than the sudden encounter. His eyes fixed on the shadowy figure, Sherlock spoke calmly but with authority, “You there. Step out and identify yourself.”

“I'm Mr. Arthur Greene, the CEO of the company. And who might you be?” the man from under the desk asked, his voice trembling slightly as he stood up.

Sherlock assessed Mr. Greene with a discerning eye, noting his dishevelled appearance and the palpable nervousness in his manner. His response was measured, his tone icy. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. John Watson. We’re investigating a recent incident involving a stolen blueprint.”

Mr. Greene’s eyes widened slightly, and he seemed momentarily taken aback. “Oh, I see. To be honest, I don’t have much information about the incident. You should speak to Dr. Evelyn Cross, the lead scientist on the project. She’s the one who would know more about the details.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mr. Greene’s seeming lack of knowledge about a critical company matter. He noted the CEO’s reluctance and made a mental note to delve deeper into Greene’s role later. “Dr. Cross, you say? Where might we find her?”

Mr. Greene’s polite facade slipped momentarily, his tone becoming brusque. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you could ask the staff at the counter on the ground floor. But if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to be left alone for now.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the CEO’s dismissive attitude, his suspicions about Greene deepening. Despite his irritation, he maintained a composed demeanour.

Sherlock gave Greene a curt nod, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. Turning to John, he gestured towards the door. “Let’s go, John. We have a scientist to find.”

John nodded in agreement, and they exited the room, closing the door behind them. As they walked down the corridor, Sherlock glanced back at the office with a hint of suspicion in his eyes.

“The CEO is hiding something. I can feel it,” Sherlock said, his voice low.

John agreed, a concerned frown on his face. “I’m inclined to think so as well. Perhaps we should inquire further with the staff at the counter.” Sherlock nodded, his mind already shifting gears as he calculated their next move.

“You’re right, John. The staff might have more information about Dr. Cross. Let’s return to the counter and ask more questions.”

As they waited for the lift, Sherlock’s thoughts raced through various scenarios, searching for missing pieces to the puzzle. When the elevator arrived at the ground floor, they exited and approached the counter, where the same staff member was still stationed. Her expression changed from surprise to apprehension upon seeing them again.

“So, did the CEO go mad?” the staff member asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her question. He decided to steer the conversation with precision.

“No, he appeared quite… stable. However, we are looking for another employee—Dr. Evelyn Cross. Can you tell us where we might find her?”The staff member’s face turned thoughtful. “Oh, Dr. Evelyn Cross… she’s actually out of town. She hasn’t been at the company for about a month now.”

Sherlock’s interest was piqued. “Out of town, you say? And she hasn’t been seen for a whole month?”
“Yes, she’s on holiday with her family,” the staff member explained. “She took time off after finalising the blueprint for the energy source. It’s surprising the CEO wouldn’t know this, but…”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. This revelation didn’t align with the CEO’s earlier instructions. “So, she’s been away on vacation for a month, yet the CEO directed us to her for questions about the stolen blueprint?” The staff member nodded, slightly nervous

Sherlock turned to John, exchanging a knowing glance. “This is certainly unexpected. It seems the CEO’s information—or lack thereof—might be part of a larger issue.”

He turned his gaze back to the staff member. “Thank you for the information. We’ll need to consider this new development carefully.”The staff member’s eyes became nervously and looked around the lobby, as if ensuring no one else was listening. “Let me guess, both of you are here for the blueprint, right? Well, Dr. Cross didn’t even know the blueprint had been stolen until we informed her last night.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the mention of last night, his mind working furiously. “Last night? When exactly was the blueprint stolen?”

“Two days ago, on Saturday,” the staff member replied.

Sherlock’s frown deepened. The timeline was crucial, and this detail added complexity to the case. He fixed his serious gaze on the staff member. “And how exactly did you contact her, given that she was on vacation?”

“Through the phone,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

Sherlock’s mind immediately latched onto this detail. “So you’ve been in contact with her by phone text this whole time?”

The staff member hesitated. “Not really the whole time. We’re not that close—just colleagues. Honestly, I’ve been thinking of quitting the company for quite some time now.

Sherlock’s ears perked up at her confession. “You wanted to quit? And why is that, if I may ask?”

The staff member’s voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes darting nervously. “Our CEO has been deeply in financial trouble. The company’s in a bad state. Please don’t tell anyone, but there have been whispers about him making poor personal financial decisions—gambling, bad investments, living beyond his means. It’s led to significant debt.”

Sherlock absorbed this new information, his mind racing. “So, our CEO is not only financially irresponsible but also a compulsive gambler. This definitely changes things…”

He turned his gaze back to the staff member with renewed intensity. “And did Dr. Cross knows about his gambling habits?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, her tone resigned. “Literally everyone knows, but no one had the courage to confront him.”

Sherlock sighed, processing the staff member’s words. “So everyone knew but no one said anything… Interesting.”

A brief silence followed before Sherlock suddenly looked at the staff member with curiosity. “But what about you? You’ve been so forthcoming. Why the change of heart?”

The staff member’s ears turned a deep shade of red, and she mumbled, “Because our CEO has been acting like a madman lately… I fear this might be my last chance to help before I leave the company. Plus,” she glanced at Sherlock shyly, “you look… kind of cute.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. The unexpected compliment took him off guard, and he glanced at John, who was trying to suppress a smirk. Sherlock cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his composure. “Thank you, but let’s focus on the matter at hand. We need to find Dr. Cross and get more details about the blueprint theft.”

“I’m really sorry, sir, ” she apologised. Sherlock waves off the staff member's apology with a hint of a smile, his focus clearly on the task at hand. “It’s alright. Your information has been quite valuable. Now, where exactly did Dr. Cross say she was vacationing?

“She’s in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia,” the staff member replied.

Sherlock nods, mentally cataloguing the new information. He glances at John, a silent communication passing between them.

“Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia,” Sherlock confirms. “I hope you’ve got your passport ready, John. It looks like we’re heading on a trip.”

John’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’ve got to be joking, Sherlock! It’ll take us thirteen hours to reach Kuala Lumpur, and that means we only have eleven hours left to save Catherine!”

Sherlock’s typically stoic expression betrays a flicker of unease. He meets John’s gaze with a serious, yet reassuring look. “Eleven hours, indeed. We don’t have a moment to lose. We’ll catch the next available flight and begin our investigation the moment we touch down.”

He turns to leave but pauses, looking back at the staff member. “Thank you for your assistance. It’s been invaluable.”

John, still troubled by the situation, speaks up. “Sherlock, I don’t think Dr. Cross is the one who stole her own blueprint. Plus, we could have just called her if we wanted to ask her questions. Why the rush to Kuala Lumpur?”

Sherlock meets John’s questioning gaze, his expression thoughtful. “You raise a valid point, John. However, there are other aspects to consider. Dr. Cross may not be the thief, but she could hold crucial information about the situation. Also, the urgency of the case—our cryptic message from ‘The Mystery’—implies that time is of the essence. It’s possible that someone else involved in the theft might be more accessible if we’re there in person.”

John sighed, the weight of their task pressing heavily upon him. “Fine, but before we head to Kuala Lumpur, we should gather as much evidence as we can from this company.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement, his eyes already darting around the lobby with a keen, analytical gaze. “Indeed. We need to be methodical and quick. We don’t have the luxury of time.”

For the next hour, Sherlock and John scoured the TS Company with meticulous care, their steps echoing in the quiet, sterile corridors. The pressure of their task was palpable, each second feeling like a precious commodity as they hunted for any evidence that might unravel the mystery of the stolen blueprint.

Their first major breakthrough came when they examined the security office. The room was dimly lit, with banks of monitors displaying various angles of the company's premises. Sherlock's eyes were sharp and focused as he sifted through the footage. After a few tense moments, he noticed a critical anomaly: the security cameras had been disabled for exactly ten minutes during the break-in. The precise timing of the lapse indicated an insider’s familiarity with the system.

Sherlock's brows furrowed deeply. “This isn’t a random glitch. The exact ten-minute blackout suggests that whoever orchestrated this theft knew precisely when and how to disable the cameras. An external thief would hardly have this level of precision.

John, taking careful notes, followed Sherlock as he led him to the next clue. They moved to the break room, a space cluttered with abandoned cups and forgotten papers. Sherlock’s keen eye was drawn to a seemingly innocuous coffee cup resting on a counter. With a gloved hand, he lifted it carefully, revealing a partial fingerprint smudged on its surface.

“Here’s something intriguing,” Sherlock remarked, scrutinising the cup. “This partial fingerprint might not match any of our known suspects yet, but it could be crucial in identifying the thief. It’s a start.”

Next, they ventured to Dr. Evelyn Cross’s office. The room was an organised mess, with papers strewn across her desk and filing cabinets slightly ajar. Amidst the clutter, Sherlock’s sharp eyes fell upon a torn note wedged between a stack of documents. The note, yellowed and slightly crumpled, read: “Tonight at midnight, it’s happening.” John picked up the note with a delicate touch, his face etched with concern.

“This note is significant,” John said, his voice tinged with confusion. “It’s unclear whether Dr. Cross wrote it herself or if it was left by someone else, but it clearly points to an event scheduled for tonight.”

Finally, Sherlock and John made their way to the area around the safe where the blueprint had been kept. Here, Sherlock’s scrutiny yielded another clue: a keycard with the name of an employee who had left the company a week ago. The keycard was found lying near the crime scene. The staff had mentioned that this former employee had recently had a heated argument with Mr. Arthur Greene.

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with intensity as he examined the keycard. “This could be our link to understanding the internal connections. The fact that this employee had a public dispute with Mr. Greene suggests a potential motive or grudge.”

John nodded in agreement, his mind racing through the implications. “We have several key leads: the insider knowledge of the security system, the partial fingerprint, the mysterious note, and the disgruntled former employee with a keycard. Each piece adds a layer to the mystery.”

Sherlock's mind raced as he absorbed the latest developments. He looked up at John, his expression thoughtful and intense.

“It seems we have a complex puzzle on our hands,” Sherlock remarked. “The keycard and the torn note suggest some inside knowledge, while the security breach and the partial fingerprint point towards an external accomplice. The reference in the note to ‘tonight’ is particularly cryptic. We have more questions than answers.”

John nodded, his face reflecting the seriousness of their situation. “So we need to solve these questions, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with determination. “Precisely. We need to find the answers swiftly. With only 24 hours remaining, we must be both efficient and thorough. Are you ready, John?”

John’s response wasn’t resolute. “Actually, we have only 223 hours left... ”

Sherlock glanced at his watch, noting the diminishing time. “You’re right, the time is even tighter than I realised. We must accelerate our efforts. No room for mistakes or distractions.”

He fixed his gaze on John, his focus unyielding. “We’re in the endgame now. Let’s get to work.”

With a firm nod from John, Sherlock turned his attention back to the clues they had gathered. “We have some valuable leads here, but we need more. We should investigate the former employee, track down any connections or motives, and uncover who wrote that note. Let’s continue our investigation.”

Chapter Text

John approached the staff member at the counter, who revealed crucial details about Kim Shin Eun, the former employee. She had left the company a week ago, citing dissatisfaction with the company and feeling it no longer suited her.

Sherlock, still holding the clues, listened intently. “Kim Shin Eun, the former employee who left the company recently. Did she give any specific reasons for her departure?”

The staff member replied, “Not exactly, but there were rumours she found a better job elsewhere. Honestly, I’m a bit envious.”

Sherlock leaned in, pressing for more details. “A better job, you say? Do you know which company she moved to?”
The staff member hesitated. “I’m not sure of the exact place, but I know she used to frequent the Starbucks nearby after work.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with renewed interest. “Starbucks, you say? That might be a useful lead. We should speak with the employees there. They might have observed something relevant.” John agreed, his urgency palpable. “So, shall we head to that Starbucks right now?” Sherlock nodded decisively. “Yes, we need to act quickly. Let’s go.”

They hurried to the nearby Starbucks. As they approached the counter, the barista on shift, a young man with a friendly smile, greeted them.

Sherlock leaned against the counter, his eyes observing the barista. “We’re investigating a case involving Kim Shin Eun, a former employee of the company nearby. We’ve heard that she frequented this establishment. Can you tell us if you’ve seen her recently?”

The barista nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Oh, yes, Kim Shin Eun. She was a regular here. I remember she used to come in almost every evening after work. She was always very pleasant, but last week, she seemed quite upset.”

John leaned in, pressing for more details. “Upset? What was she upset about?”

The barista’s eyes flickered with recollection. “She mentioned falling out with someone at her job. It was over a pay dispute, I believe. She was really frustrated about it. I overheard her talking about it with her boss who was also a regular here, Arthur Greene.”

Sherlock’s interest sharpened at the mention of Arthur Greene. “Arthur Greene, you say? What was the dispute about, and was it of any consequence?”

The barista shrugged, his tone apologetic. “I’m not entirely sure. From what I heard, Kim was asking for a raise that the company couldn’t accommodate. She seemed to think they were undervaluing her work.

Sherlock exchanged a meaningful glance with John. “A pay dispute could certainly provide a motive. We should investigate further into Arthur Greene’s role in this.”

John nodded in agreement. “It makes sense to pursue this lead. If Kim was indeed in conflict with Arthur Greene, it could be a crucial piece of the puzzle.”

Sherlock looked at John with a mix of admiration and caution. “Yes, it’s a plausible motive, but we must avoid jumping to conclusions. There could be other factors at play. We need to investigate the note, the security breach, and the fingerprint thoroughly before ruling out other suspects.”

He glanced at his watch once more, a hint of urgency in his eyes. “And time is running out.” With the clock ticking, Sherlock and John gathered their clues and prepared to continue their investigation. Their journey was far from over, and the truth remained just out of reach, hidden amidst the labyrinth of deception they had yet to navigate.

After an hour, Sherlock's eyebrows arched in surprise as John delivered the unexpected news. The fingerprint on the coffee cup belonged to Dr. Evelyn Cross, despite her being absent from the company for a month.

“It’s quite perplexing,” Sherlock mused, his mind racing through the implications. “Dr. Evelyn Cross’s fingerprint on a coffee cup at a crime scene... But she’s been away for a month. How could that be?”

John’s frustration mirrored Sherlock’s concern. “This just makes everything more confusing. Why would her fingerprint be there?”

Sherlock nodded gravely, his face hardening. “It’s clear that Dr. Cross’s involvement, or at least her connection to this case, cannot be dismissed as a mere coincidence.”

Sherlock and John made their way back to Baker Street, the weight of their investigation pressing heavily upon them. The cluttered atmosphere of 221B seemed both comforting and stifling as they returned to their temporary base of operations.

John, his mind already racing through potential next steps, addressed Sherlock with a sense of urgency. “Well, Sherlock, I’ll be sending the fingerprint to Molly Hooper for further analysis. I should be back as soon as possible.”

Sherlock merely nodded, his gaze fixed on the scattered array of notes, photographs, and evidence spread out across the table. The room, lit by the flickering glow of a solitary lamp, felt charged with the intensity of their mission. As John left, Sherlock took a deep breath, mentally sifting through the myriad of clues and possibilities before him.

An hour later, the familiar creak of the door announced John’s return. His face was a canvas of weariness, etched with deep lines of concern and surprise. He carried an air of urgency, which instantly caught Sherlock’s attention. “Sherlock,” John said, his voice strained with a mix of disbelief and determination, “I’ve got some startling news.”

Sherlock, deeply engrossed in his calculations and notes, looked up with a spark of curiosity in his eyes. “What is it, John?” John paused, taking a moment to collect his thoughts before delivering the unexpected revelation. “The fingerprint on the coffee cup—it belongs to Dr. Evelyn Cross. Molly confirmed it with her forensic team, despite her having been absent from the company for a month.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed in thought as he absorbed the significance of the information. “I see,” he mused aloud, his mind whirring with possibilities. “Dr. Evelyn Cross’s fingerprint on a coffee cup at a crime scene... But she’s been away for a month. How could that be?” John’s frustration was evident in his tone and body language. “This just makes everything more confusing. Why would her fingerprint be there if she hasn’t been around?”

Sherlock’s face hardened with the weight of the revelation. He paced the room, his mind racing through various scenarios. “It’s clear that Dr. Cross’s involvement, or at least her connection to this case, cannot be dismissed as a mere coincidence.”

Before Sherlock could delve deeper into his thoughts, a voice cut through their conversation, startling both men. “Or perhaps someone’s making it appear to be a coincidence,” the voice intoned with a calm, authoritative tone from behind them.

Sherlock and John turn around, their focused expressions giving way to surprise and irritation. It was Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother who was standing in the doorway, his presence as commanding and enigmatic as ever. Sherlock’s initial shock quickly evolved into a familiar mixture of irritation and resignation. His eyes narrowed slightly, the corners of his mouth tightening as if bracing for another inevitable clash of wills.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, his voice laced with frustration, “What are you doing here? And how long have you been listening to our conversation?”

Mycroft stood in the doorway, his face a mask of inscrutability, though a faint glimmer of amusement danced in his eyes. “Oh, come now, Sherlock. Don’t act as though I’m intruding on your precious ‘case.’ ” He strolled confidently into the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, a familiar air of superiority hanging about him. “I’ve known about this case since the very day it was reported to me, of course.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched at Mycroft’s nonchalance, his irritation evident. “Of course you have,” he muttered under his breath.

John, watching the exchange with growing discomfort, instinctively took a step back, allowing the brothers their customary space for these verbal jousts. Arms crossed, his expression hovered between curiosity and apprehension. “Do you have any insight into this, Mycroft?” he asked, hoping to ease the tension.

Mycroft’s lips curved ever so slightly in a smile, his satisfaction barely contained. “Indeed, John. I’ve been following the case from a distance.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in as he glanced between his brother and John. “It appears that there are deeper layers to this mystery that require unravelling.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but remained silent, his keen mind already whirling through the implications of his brother’s words. “Deeper layers,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else. “So you’ve deduced something, have you?”

Mycroft, still wearing that inscrutable smile, lowered himself onto one of the armchairs with an air of casual authority. “Naturally,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

John’s gaze flickered between the two brothers, sensing the growing undercurrent of rivalry and annoyance simmering between them. “What kind of layers are we talking about?” he asked, eager to steer the conversation back to the case.

Mycroft folded his hands in his lap, his gaze settling on John as though considering how much to reveal. “There are certain... connections, shall we say, that seem too convenient to ignore. The involvement of Dr. Evelyn Cross, the stolen blueprint, all point to something larger at play.

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened, his irritation giving way to the focused intensity that always emerged when he sensed a breakthrough. “Larger how, exactly?” he asked, his voice low but insistent.

Mycroft’s expression remained unreadable, though his tone softened ever so slightly. “I suspect that the blueprint theft isn’t just about financial gain. There’s more at stake here than we’ve been led to believe. And as for Dr. Cross’s fingerprint...” He trailed off, allowing the thought to hang in the air for a moment. “I believe someone is orchestrating these events, and they’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that suspicion falls in the wrong places.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened, his mind racing through possibilities. “If Dr. Cross is being framed, we need to determine who benefits from implicating her. And why.”

Sherlock’s mind was already racing ahead, formulating a plan. “Right,” he said, standing abruptly. “We still don’t know who’s after it or why.” Mycroft rose from his seat, adjusting his jacket with his usual air of superiority. “Then it seems we’re all in agreement. But do try to avoid making things unnecessarily complicated, Sherlock. We wouldn’t want you to lose sight of the bigger picture.”

Sherlock shot his brother a withering look, though he couldn’t entirely suppress the flicker of gratitude in his eyes. As much as he loathed admitting it, Mycroft’s involvement always seemed to bring a certain clarity to even the most convoluted cases.

“Speaking of which, why are you two involved in this case? And how did you come to know about it in the first place?” Mycroft asked, with a hint of curiosity.

John stepped forward, offering a succinct explanation. “We’re here because our friend, Catherine, has been kidnapped. The situation involves a mysterious blueprint and various suspicious elements that led us to investigate further.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed at the mention of Catherine. “Catherine?” he repeated, clearly taken aback. His expression shifted, becoming more calculating. “I will try to track her down. I had been considering recruiting her to my team.”

John nodded in gratitude. “Thank you, Mycroft. Any help you can offer would be appreciated.” However Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “ Recruiting her? What do you mean by ‘recruiting her’? ”

Mycroft’s expression remained inscrutable. “Oh, come now, Sherlock. You’re well aware of my proposal to have her join the English government. I wonder what transpired between you two yesterday.”

Sherlock felt a flush of embarrassment and irritation. He was acutely aware of his recent missteps with Catherine, and Mycroft’s probing only exacerbated his frustration. “Yes, well, that’s neither here nor there. What’s your point?”

Mycroft’s gaze remained steady. “My point is, with Catherine’s potential involvement in this case, I am inclined to help you both. But, let's focus on solving the case first. The sooner we locate her, the sooner we can address other matters.”

Sherlock clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “Fine. We’ll focus on rescuing Catherine. But this isn’t over, Mycroft. We have much to discuss once this case is resolved.”

Mycroft seemed unperturbed by Sherlock’s frustration, shifting his attention to John. “The fingerprint, you see, could have been deliberately planted.”

Sherlock’s interest piqued. “Planted? Are you suggesting someone intentionally placed Dr. Evelyn Cross’s fingerprint on the coffee cup?”

Mycroft’s lips curled into a small smile of approval. “Exactly. Considering she worked here, it would have been easy for someone to plant her fingerprint to mislead us. The way these clues align so perfectly could be a deliberate attempt to frame her.”

Sherlock’s mind raced with the implications. “So, you’re saying the evidence might be a setup to divert suspicion away from the actual perpetrator?”

Mycroft nodded gravely. “Precisely. The situation appears too convenient, as if someone is orchestrating events to point the finger at Dr. Cross.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with newfound determination. “Then we must uncover the true motive behind this elaborate scheme. We need to investigate further to reveal who stands to gain from framing Dr. Evelyn Cross.”

With a renewed sense of urgency, Sherlock turned to John. “We need to press on, delve deeper into the connections between the keycard, the mysterious note, and any other potential leads. Time is of the essence.”

John nodded in agreement, his focus sharpening. “Understood, Sherlock.”

As the three of them—Sherlock, John, and Mycroft—prepared to tackle the complex web of deceit and intrigue, they knew that each clue brought them closer to unravelling the truth. The clock was ticking, and their resolve to save Catherine and solve the mystery grew stronger with each passing moment.
(21 Hours Left)

Chapter Text

The sky was darkening, and the faint hum of the city was ever-present in the background, yet the weight of the case pressed heavily on their minds.

"Right then," John said, his breath visible in the crisp evening air. "Where to next? Mycroft’s theory about the fingerprint being planted makes sense, but we need more than theories."

Sherlock slowed his pace, deep in thought. His eyes flickered, scanning the pavement as if the answers lay hidden beneath the cracks.

“Dr. Cross is certainly a piece of this puzzle, but she’s not the central one,” Sherlock murmured, half to himself. “Her fingerprint being on that cup could easily be a red herring, an attempt to divert us. Whoever orchestrated this knows how to manipulate evidence, how to lay a trail that appears just clear enough, but is ultimately deceptive.”

John adjusted the collar of his jacket against the biting wind. “So, what are you thinking?” Sherlock stopped abruptly, his sharp gaze locking with John’s. “The keycard. Whoever used it had to have knowledge of the building's security systems, which means they either worked here or had inside help. Kim Shin Eun might still be our best lead. She knew the systems, and she had access before she left. If she’s involved, her departure could have been part of a larger plan.”

“You think she’s working with someone else?” John asked, his tone more sceptical than usual. “Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for revenge over a pay raise.”

Sherlock smirked, that familiar glint of intellectual excitement returning to his eyes. “Oh, John, you’re thinking far too narrowly. The stolen blueprint is not just any design. It holds the potential for massive financial gain — patents, intellectual property rights, industry disruption. This isn’t merely about a disgruntled employee; it’s about profit. Kim Shin Eun might have a personal motive, but her real reason for involvement, if she is indeed involved, would be money.”

John exhaled slowly, absorbing the gravity of Sherlock’s words. “Right. So we find Kim Shin Eun. If she’s not our thief, she’ll at least know who is.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod and started walking again, his long strides carrying him quickly down the street. “Precisely. We track her down, and the threads of this mystery will start to unravel.”

"Wait, but how exactly do we track her down?" John asked, halting in his tracks and glancing at Sherlock with concern.
Sherlock chuckled lightly, his eyes gleaming with a trace of amusement. "I had Lestrade look into it."

Just as he finished speaking, the phone in Sherlock’s pocket buzzed. He fished it out, glancing briefly at the screen before answering. The familiar voice of Inspector Lestrade crackled through the receiver.

“I’ve run the background check on Kim Shin Eun, the former employee you mentioned. Turns out, she’s now working at a new company located on Cornelia Street. I’ll send you the exact address shortly.”

Sherlock ended the call and relayed the update to John.
“Good work, Lestrade,” John remarked with a nod of approval. “Looks like we have our next destination.”

Sherlock pocketed his phone, already planning their next move. “Indeed. Let’s not waste any more time. We head to Cornelia Street now.”

With a shared glance of determination, Sherlock and John wasted no time heading out to Cornelia Street. The streets of London were bustling, but both men moved with a purpose, weaving through the crowd. Sherlock’s long coat billowed slightly in the crisp air as they walked, his mind already calculating the next steps.

“Do you think she’s involved more deeply than we realise?” John asked, his tone tinged with concern. “Her connection to Arthur Greene, the timing of her departure—it’s suspicious.”

Sherlock’s sharp gaze remained focused ahead, though his mind was clearly working at full speed. “Suspicious, yes. But we can’t jump to conclusions. People often hide in plain sight, John. Sometimes the ones who seem most implicated are only the tools being used by someone else.”

John raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying she’s a pawn in all this?”
Sherlock’s expression remained unreadable as they turned the corner into Cornelia Street. “Possibly. Or perhaps she knows more than she’s letting on. Either way, we need answers.”

They approached the office building Lestrade had mentioned. It was an unassuming structure, sandwiched between a café and a small bookshop. A brass plaque by the door indicated the company name, Daylight Enterprises.

“Daylight Enterprises ,” John murmured, eyeing the building. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Daylight Enterprises is a relatively small player in the technology field, but they’ve been quietly securing significant contracts in recent months. There’s more beneath the surface than meets the eye.”

John sighed, shaking his head as they approached the office. “Nothing ever seems simple with you, does it?”

Sherlock smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Ah, but John, where would be the thrill if everything were simple?”

Inside, the lobby was sleek and modern, sterile and devoid of warmth, the faint scent of polished wood and fresh coffee mingling in the air.

“Can I help you both?” the receptionist asked, her eyes flitting nervously between them.
“We’re here to see Kim Shin Eun,” Sherlock said, his tone a blend of charm and authority that left little room for refusal.
The receptionist’s smile faltered. “I’m afraid Miss Kim is in a meeting at the moment. Can I leave her a message?”

Sherlock leaned in slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto hers. “I suggest you inform her that Sherlock Holmes is here to see her. I doubt she’ll want to keep us waiting.”

The receptionist blinked, clearly unsettled by Sherlock’s intensity. She quickly tapped something into her computer, then glanced nervously at them. “Please wait here for a moment.”

As the woman scurried off, John gave Sherlock a sidelong glance. “Do you always have to scare people into doing what you want?”
“It saves time, ” he replied.

Minutes later, Kim Shin Eun appeared at the far end of the hallway, her expression a mixture of surprise and apprehension. She approached them cautiously, her posture stiff.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” she greeted them coolly. “I wasn’t expecting visitors. To what do I owe the pleasure? Let's come into my office.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over her, taking in every detail—the way she fidgeted slightly with the edge of her sleeve, the subtle tension in her jaw. She was nervous, but why? He wasted no time.

“We’re here regarding the recent theft at TS Company,” Sherlock said smoothly. “We have reason to believe you may have information that could prove valuable.”

Kim Shin Eun’s eyes widened briefly before she regained her composure. “I don’t work there anymore. What could I possibly know?”

John stepped forward, his voice steady but firm. “There’s a keycard belonging to you that was found near the crime scene. We’ve also heard that you had a disagreement with Arthur Greene before you left.”

“What?” Kim Shin Eun’s eyes widened in genuine surprise, her brow furrowing in confusion. “I don’t remember taking my keycard when I left.”
Her voice wavered slightly, as if she were trying to replay the events in her mind, searching for any mistake or detail that could explain this revelation.

Sherlock’s sharp gaze never left her, observing the subtle changes in her expression. He could see her surprise was authentic. Either she was a brilliant actress, or she truly had no idea about the keycard’s involvement.

“You’re saying you don’t recall having it on you?” Sherlock asked, his voice carefully measured. He could sense her unease, and he wanted to push, but not too far. Not yet.

Kim Shin Eun shook her head, her hands reflexively tightening on her handbag. “No. I was asked to return it when I handed in my resignation. I haven’t seen it since.”

John, standing beside Sherlock, exchanged a glance with his friend before stepping in. “You’re sure about that? Because it was found at the scene, and right now, it’s one of the pieces that ties you to the theft.”

Kim Shin Eun’s face paled slightly, and she let out a shaky breath. “I swear, I didn’t take it.” Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his mind spinning through the possibilities. He believed her – at least, for now. “It wouldn’t be the first time evidence has been tampered with,” he mused aloud, glancing at John. “It’s possible her keycard was stolen, used as a part of an elaborate setup.”

Kim Shin Eun’s hands dropped to her sides, her frustration now evident. “You have to believe me. I left that company for good reasons, but I didn’t take anything with me. If my keycard was at the crime scene, someone’s using me to cover their tracks.”

Sherlock nodded slightly, more to himself than to anyone else. Sherlock studied Kim Shin Eun’s face, noting the genuine distress etched in her features. It was clear she was not lying. He turned to John, who was watching the exchange with a thoughtful expression.

“Alright, Kim,” Sherlock said, his voice steady. “If you didn’t take your keycard, then it must have been planted or stolen. We need to figure out who had access to it after you left the company.”

Kim Shin Eun nodded vigorously, her relief palpable. “Yes, exactly. I don’t know who would have done this, but I’m sure it’s not me.”

John stepped forward, his gaze focused. “Can you think of anyone who might have had a motive to frame you? Anyone who knew you were leaving and could benefit from making you look guilty?”

Kim Shin Eun bit her lip, clearly deep in thought. “I can think of a few colleagues who might hold a grudge, but I didn’t have any major issues with anyone. However, Arthur Greene—he was always quite controlling and had a way of making enemies.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with interest. “Arthur Greene again. It seems our suspicions about him are well-founded. He was the last person you had a confrontation with before leaving the company.”

Kim Shin Eun nodded. “Yes, he was quite adamant that I wouldn’t get the raise I asked for, and he made it clear he wasn’t pleased with my decision to leave.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. “Arthur Greene could indeed have a motive. But we need more concrete evidence linking him to the crime. We’ll need to investigate his movements and see if we can find any connection between him and the theft.”

John gave a determined nod. “Alright, let’s get to work on that. We’ve already got a lot to go on, but we need to tighten the net.” Kim ShinEun looked at Sherlock and John with a mix of hope and apprehension. “Thank you for listening to me. I’m genuinely concerned about who might be behind this, and I hope you find the real culprit.”

Sherlock offered a reassuring smile. “We will, Kim. And we’ll make sure to clear your name in the process.”

As they left the office, Sherlock and John’s minds were already working on their next steps. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, but the real challenge was to uncover the true mastermind behind the complex scheme. The clock was ticking, and they needed to act fast to unravel the mystery and save Catherine.

John was about to suggest their next move when something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.

"Sherlock," John whispered sharply, nudging him and nodding toward the lobby. "Look! It’s Arthur Greene."
Sherlock’s sharp gaze followed John's, locking onto the figure in question. Arthur Greene, in a perfectly tailored suit, stood casually by the reception desk, talking to one of the staff. At first glance, the conversation appeared normal, but the subtle shifts in Greene’s stance and the occasional quick glances around the lobby betrayed an underlying tension.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his mind already piecing together what this unexpected appearance could mean. He had always suspected Greene of being a key player in this twisted game, and seeing him here—at the very heart of it all—only confirmed that suspicion.

“What’s he doing here?” John muttered, keeping his voice low as they watched from a distance.

Before Sherlock could respond, Arthur Greene wrapped up his conversation and strode towards the lift. His expression was calm, almost too calm for someone caught up in such a dangerous game. Greene pressed the button for the lift.

"Interesting," Sherlock said, his tone clipped and calculating. "Arthur Greene showing up at the very moment we're closing in on the truth... He’s not here by coincidence."

John frowned, his mind racing to catch up. “Do you think he’s here because of Kim Shin Eun?” Sherlock paused for a second, then shook his head, his lips curling slightly in contemplation. “Perhaps not,” he replied, his tone thoughtful but guarded.

John’s brow furrowed, clearly confused. “What? What do you mean by ‘perhaps not’? She just met us, and now he’s here?”

“Well Miss Kim just met us and now Arthur Greene appears in this building, she won’t be that dumb to let us see Arthur here, it will make her more suspicious. Plus as I observed her just now, it seemed like she was telling the truth. Even though she seemed nervous, it's because of all this stuff that is happening, not because of lying or whatever ” Sherlock answered John.

As the lift doors shut, Sherlock’s eyes stayed sharp, focused on the illuminated display above the lift.

“He’s heading up,” Sherlock observed coolly, his tone distant yet focused. “But the real question is—where to?”

John glanced at Sherlock with a mix of curiosity and unease. “And what’s your plan now?” Sherlock, still fixated on the illuminated display, responded without hesitation, “We follow, of course. Quietly. Let’s see where Mr. Greene is heading and why.”

John, already on alert, nodded in agreement, his eyes scanning the hall for any sign of movement.

As soon as a different lift arrived, they stepped in. Sherlock quickly pressed the button for a floor just above Greene’s destination, giving them an advantage without tipping off their target.

As the elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, they stepped out into a pristine, eerily silent corridor. The hallway stretched out in front of them, gleaming under the sterile glow of fluorescent lights. It was as if the entire building was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

“He should be just below us,” Sherlock whispered, his voice barely audible. “Keep an ear out,” Sherlock murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “If he’s meeting anyone, we’ll want to catch every word.” John nodded, matching Sherlock’s carefulness. They made their way to a nearby staircase, soundlessly. Their footsteps softened by the carpeted stairs. Just outside the door to the floor below, Sherlock pressed his ear against the cool steel, listening intently.

At first, there was nothing but muffled sounds. Then, faintly, they caught the rhythm of voices—low, deliberate, and laced with something sinister.

“...all preparations are in place... no turning back now...” came a voice, muffled through the door.

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened, his focus narrowing. “It’s him—Arthur Greene,” he mouthed to John. “And someone else.”

John frowned, leaning in closer. “Who’s he talking to?”

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. He was too busy piecing together the fragments he could hear.

“...the blueprint will be secure... no one will suspect anything.”

Sherlock’s pulse quickened. The blueprint—they were finally on the verge of unravelling the plot that connected Catherine’s kidnapping to this shadowy conspiracy.

“Ready?” Sherlock whispered, his eyes locked with John’s. “We need to be cautious. Follow my lead.” John gave a tight nod, his muscles tensed, ready for whatever came next.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock nudged the door open just enough to catch a glimpse inside. There, standing by a desk, was Arthur Greene, leaning over some documents. Opposite him,a young man sitting, his sharp suit and confident posture exuding power. The two men appeared engrossed in their conversation, unaware of the eyes watching from the shadows.

Sherlock’s gaze darted to the desk. His suspicions were confirmed: the blueprint was there, laid out neatly in front of them.

“That’s it,” he whispered to John, his tone steely with resolve. John leaned in for a better look. “What do we do now?”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “We let them think they’re still in control.”
John gave him a questioning look, but Sherlock was already pulling back, his mind racing ahead.

“This isn’t the time to strike,” Sherlock whispered as he led John into a nearby alcove where they could observe unnoticed. “Not yet. Let’s see what else unfolds.”

The tension was thick, almost palpable, as they waited. Every passing second felt heavier, the stakes rising with every breath. John clenched his fists at his sides, resisting the urge to charge in. But Sherlock’s steady, calculating expression kept him grounded. He knew there was more to uncover before they could make their move.

“Wait for it,” he murmured under his breath, a sly smile forming. “This game is about to get even more interesting.”

(20 Hours Left)

Chapter Text

As Sherlock and John waited in the shadows, the room they were watching hummed with tension. Arthur Greene had been talking to another man—a stockier figure with a hard expression. He flipped through a small notebook, scribbling something down as he listened to Arthur.

John, crouched beside Sherlock, whispered, “Who’s that? The guy with Greene?” Sherlock squinted, focusing on the man’s actions rather than his face. “Unknown. Not someone we’ve encountered before, but he’s clearly gathering information. Possibly an intermediary… or just a glorified errand boy.”

Inside the room, Arthur was speaking quickly, his voice shaky but trying to sound confident. “We’ve got everything ready. The blueprint’s in its final stages. No one will be able to trace it back to us. She, Kim Shin Eun, won’t have a clue she’s being set up. The coppers are focused on her now. They don’t suspect anyone else.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He had suspected she wasn’t as deeply involved as she appeared, but now he had confirmation. She wasn’t guilty, she had been set up, just a pawn in a much larger, darker game.

Sherlock’s mind raced, but he kept his breathing steady. This was the confirmation he needed—Kim Shin Eun was innocent. But the deeper voice that followed Arthur’s admission held an ominous undertone, one that silenced any lingering doubts about who was really behind this.

The stocky man barely reacted, instead jotting down another note in his small notebook. He didn’t seem the type to care about details unless they involved results. His indifference made him even more unsettling—a bureaucrat of crime, not a mastermind, but a man who made sure things run smoothly.

The man clicked his pen closed with a small snap and tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket. He gave Arthur a cold look, one eyebrow raised, and said, “Good. Keep it that way. Blackwood doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

Arthur swallowed audibly at the mention of the name. “I know,” he muttered. “I won’t screw this up.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted at the mention of the name “Blackwood.” It wasn’t familiar, but the way Arthur reacted made it clear: whoever this “Blackwood” was, he was dangerous. The stocky man was just a cog in the machine—someone sent to gather updates and make sure Arthur was doing his job.

The door suddenly creaked open, and Sherlock and John tensed, pressing further into the shadows. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and a tall figure—cast in darkness—stepped into the room.

The moment the tall figure entered, the stocky man stiffened, snapping his heels together with a subtle sign of deference. The man who had commanded Arthur a moment ago now shrank into the background as if his role was done.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, observing the silent exchange of power. “That man,” he whispered to John, “he’s not in charge. He’s just... reporting to someone higher. Whoever just walked in—they’re the one pulling the strings.”

John nodded in agreement, his gaze never leaving the tall figure. “Blackwood?” he whispered, echoing the name they’d overheard.

“Possibly,” Sherlock murmured. “Or someone close to him. Whoever they are, they command attention without saying a word.”

Inside the room, Arthur Greene’s nervousness only gets worse. He had been edgy before, but now his anxiety was palpable. The tall figure loomed just at the edge of the dim light, not stepping fully into view. Their presence, though silent, was suffocating.

The stocky man, having completed his task, handed a folder of papers to the tall figure. “Everything is in order,” he said in a clipped tone, deferring to the newcomer. “The blueprint is ready, and the authorities are looking at Kim Shin Eun. Greene’s been keeping things clean.”

The tall figure nodded once, his face still obscured by shadows. Arthur visibly trembled under the weight of the silence, clearly desperate to impress or avoid further scrutiny.

“Good,” the tall figure finally said, his voice low and menacing. “Make sure the next phase goes off without a hitch. I don’t need to remind you how he feels about delays.”

Arthur’s expression turned ghostly pale at the implication, and even the stocky man shifted uncomfortably at the subtle threat. Sherlock caught every nuance, every flicker of fear that ran across their faces. Whoever “he” was, it could only mean one thing: The puppet master behind it all.

But there was no time to speculate further. The tall figure stepped back, about to leave the room. The stocky man fumbled to gather his things, ready to follow, while Arthur was just standing there, frozen in place. His hand hovered over the stack of papers on the desk, his fingers trembling slightly. It was clear that whatever confidence he had mustered earlier had now vanished entirely. The stocky man shot Arthur a sharp glance, as though silently commanding him to move, but Arthur seemed rooted to the spot.

His eyes darted toward the door, then back to the papers, clearly torn between the growing urgency to follow and the weight of the plans that lay before him.

Sherlock motioned to John, his hand signalling the need for silence and precision. They couldn’t afford to be seen—not yet. Not until they had more information.

The tall figure reached for the door handle but paused, his head turning ever so slightly in their direction. Sherlock and John pressed deeper into the shadows, barely daring to breathe. The figure seemed to sense something amiss, but after a tense moment, he brushed it off. His hand twisted the knob, and the door opened with a soft click.

Arthur, still unmoving, finally managed to stammer out, “Wait... what about her? What about Catherine?”

The tall figure stopped in his tracks, his back still turned to Arthur and the others. There was a long, agonising pause. John’s heart was pounding, but Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, hanging on every word.

Without turning around, the figure’s voice cut through the silence like ice. “You stick to your task, Greene. Leave her to me.”

Arthur visibly gulped. “B-But—”

The stocky man, now visibly irritated, snapped at him, his voice a low growl. “Don’t push it, Greene. You're deep enough already. Do your job, or you’ll be the one who answers to him.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed as the pieces of the puzzle began to align in his mind. This was about control, power, and manipulation—Moriarty’s signature. But there was still more they needed to uncover, and Catherine’s life hung in the balance.

The tall figure gave one last look over his shoulder, the light catching just the edge of his cold, calculating expression. His lips curved into a thin, dangerous smile. Then, without another word, he walked out, the stocky man close behind.

Arthur stood alone now, his hands shaking as he gathered up the papers and stuffed them into his briefcase. He muttered something under his breath—something Sherlock couldn’t quite catch—but whatever it was, it spoke of fear. Deep, unrelenting fear.

Sherlock turned to John, his voice barely a whisper. “We’ve got enough. Catherine’s being held somewhere, but not for ransom. This is all a game, John. A very dangerous game.”

John’s eyes flicked toward Arthur. “What now? Do we grab him?”

Sherlock considered the question for a beat, then shook his head. “Not yet. We follow him. Arthur’s our best link to finding Catherine, but we need him to lead us to the exact location.”

Arthur quickly snapped his briefcase shut, his movements jerky with panic. He made his way to the door, glancing over his shoulder one last time, as if sensing the danger he was in. Then he slipped out of the room, disappearing into the hallway.

Sherlock and John exchanged a look before silently stepping out of the shadows, following after Arthur like wraiths in the dark.

“Let’s hope he’s useful,” John muttered under his breath.
“He will be,” Sherlock replied, his voice tight with determination.

“He has no choice.”

Just as they rounded the corner, following Arthur Greene, Sherlock’s phone vibrated insistently in his pocket. He paused, exchanging a quick glance with John, who nodded, silently urging him to answer.

Sherlock pulled out the device and glanced at the screen. It was Mycroft. He hesitated for a moment but then chose to swipe to answer while keeping a longer distance from Greene.

“What is it, Mycroft?” he said, his voice low and focused, keeping one eye on Arthur Greene’s retreating figure.
“Sherlock, I need to speak with you immediately,” Mycroft’s voice was urgent. “I’ve received some alarming intelligence regarding Catherine’s situation as I was tracking down her phone.”

“What have you found?”

“Jim Moriarty’s name has surfaced again. It appears he is somehow involved in this, orchestrating things from behind the scenes,” Mycroft continued, his tone grave. “And I have reason to believe that Catherine’s kidnapping is part of a larger scheme aimed directly at you.”

John’s expression hardened at the mention of Moriarty. “What does he want?” he whispered, leaning closer to Sherlock.

“He’s trying to draw you out, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, his voice steady despite the urgency. “We cannot underestimate him. You need to be extremely careful.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. We’re on our way to gather more information,” Sherlock said, cutting the call short. He turned to John, his mind racing. “Moriarty’s involved. This isn’t just about the blueprint; it’s personal.”

“Wait, so Moriarty is behind all this? Ugh, what a wanker!” John said, frustration clear in his voice.

Sherlock nodded, his thoughts already moving forward. “So the Blackwood we just saw was working with Moriarty... It all makes sense now.” He spoke not directly to John, but as if piecing together a complex puzzle in his mind palace.

As they continued their pursuit, they noticed Arthur Greene was walking back to his company. The car journey from Daylight Enterprise to TS Company typically took about ten minutes, yet Sherlock, John, and Arthur were now lagging behind, taking nearly thirty minutes to arrive.

“Bloody hell, why doesn’t he just take a cab back to his office? This is wasting our time!” John whispered to Sherlock as they continued to follow Arthur Greene.

“Perhaps he can’t afford one,” Sherlock replied, his gaze fixed on Greene.
“What do you mean?”

“Look at him, John. A CEO yet he’s resorting to selling his company’s blueprint. His financial troubles must be dire for him to consider this. To him, the immediate financial gain from selling the blueprint outweighs any long-term benefits of keeping the company afloat.”

“So that’s why he chose to collaborate with Blackwood?” John asked.
“Possibly. We’ll have to confront him to find out,” Sherlock replied.
“Are you out of your mind? That could put Cath in danger!” John’s voice was edged with worry.
“We don’t have time, John. We need answers from Arthur Greene.”
John sighed. “Alright then, what’s the plan? We’re not just walking into his office and asking, are we?”

“That’s exactly the plan, John.”

John blinked, staring at Sherlock as if he’d just suggested flying to the moon. “You can’t be serious…”

“Oh, but I am,” Sherlock replied, already striding towards the entrance of TS Company. “Sometimes, the direct approach is the most effective. Arthur Greene won’t expect us to just walk in again. It’ll throw him off balance.”

“Because that’s exactly what criminals expect,” John muttered, reluctantly following. “And what if he doesn’t crack under pressure?”

“He will,” Sherlock said confidently, eyes gleaming with certainty. “Arthur Greene’s already rattled. I saw it in his eyes the first time we spoke. He’s teetering on the edge, and we’re about to push him over.”

They reached the entrance of TS Company, and Sherlock pushed open the glass door without hesitation. The receptionist was at her desk, the same young lady who had met them earlier. Her eyes lit up when she saw Sherlock, clearly pleased to see him again. She quickly smoothed her hair and straightened her blouse.

“Back so soon?” she asked, her voice bright as she smiled at Sherlock, completely ignoring John’s presence.

Sherlock offered her a charming half-smile, his voice softening. “Yes, a slight change of plans, I’m afraid. We’ll need to speak with Mr. Greene again.”

She glanced at her computer before nodding. “He’s in his office. Should I let him know you’re on your way?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No need. We’ll surprise him.”

The receptionist blushed slightly, clearly flustered by his charm. “Of course. Go right ahead.” John, watching the interaction, raised his eyebrows. “Really laying it on thick, aren’t you?” he muttered as they headed towards the elevators.

Sherlock smirked. “It works, doesn’t it?”

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ‘ding,’ and they stepped inside. As the doors closed, a knot of unease tightened in John's chest. “What exactly are we going to ask him, Sherlock? Push too hard, and we could blow our chance of finding Catherine.”

“We’ll push just enough,” Sherlock replied, his tone calm, eyes fixed on the ascending floor numbers. “Arthur Greene knows more than he’s saying, and with Blackwood breathing down his neck, he’s feeling the strain. We just need to give it one final turn.”

The elevator stopped with a jolt, and the doors opened. They stepped into the corridor leading to Arthur’s office. Sherlock led the way, his expression hardening as they approached the door.

Without knocking, Sherlock turned the handle and strode inside, John close behind. Arthur Greene, seated behind his large oak desk, looked up in shock. His eyes widened as he recognised the two men standing before him.

“Both of you, again?” Arthur’s voice was shaky, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.
“We need to have a word, Arthur,” Sherlock said smoothly, walking towards the desk, his every movement calculated.

Arthur swallowed nervously, his eyes flickering between Sherlock and John. “I-I already told you everything earlier.”

“Oh, I’m sure you think you did,” Sherlock replied, his tone sharp, “but we both know you’re holding back. You know where Catherine is. You’re working with Blackwood. And Moriarty’s behind the whole thing.”

Arthur’s face paled, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John stepped forward, his patience thinning. “Don’t play games with us. Catherine’s life is on the line. We’re not here for pleasantries, Arthur.”

Arthur’s hands trembled as he adjusted his tie nervously. “I can’t… I-I’m just following orders.”
“Then tell us whose orders,” Sherlock pressed, his voice steely. “Who is Blackwood? Where is Catherine?”

Arthur’s composure cracked further, sweat beading on his forehead. “I don’t know where she is. I only… I only know that she’s being held somewhere safe, but it’s not here. I swear!”

Sherlock leaned in closer, his eyes cold and calculating. “Don’t lie to me, Arthur. Where is the blueprint? What’s the real objective here?”

Arthur hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. His fingers drummed nervously on the desk as he avoided Sherlock’s piercing gaze.

“I-I’m not the one in charge,” Arthur stammered, finally breaking under the pressure. “It’s all Moriarty’s doing… Blackwood is just a middleman, orchestrating things from behind the scenes. I don’t know the full plan, but the blueprint—it’s the key to everything. Moriarty wants it because... because it controls more than you can imagine. It’s about control. Total control.”

Sherlock exchanged a glance with John, both of them understanding the gravity of what Arthur had just revealed. They had suspected Moriarty’s involvement, but now they had confirmation—and it was worse than they thought.

John, feeling the urgency of the situation, drew his gun from his coat and pointed it at Arthur Greene. Though it was a harsh move, he knew it would be effective in forcing Arthur to obey them.

“Pick up the phone,” John commanded.

Terrified of the potential consequences, Arthur reluctantly obeyed as he reached for the phone. Arthur Greene’s hand trembled as he reached for the phone, his eyes wide with fear. He glanced nervously at John, whose gun remained unwaveringly trained on him. Sherlock, silent but watchful, studied every twitch of Arthur’s expression, every drop of sweat that slid down his brow.

As Arthur brought the phone to his ear, his voice cracked slightly. “H-Hello?”

The voice on the other end was cold and devoid of any emotion. “Greene, upper management confirms Kim Shin Eun has already been apprehended by the police. Your task remains the same. If you encounter Sherlock, maintain ignorance—deny everything. Make sure the missing blueprint is linked to Kim Shin Eun. Once that’s done, our business is concluded. You’ll receive your payment shortly thereafter.”

Arthur’s voice barely wavered as he spoke, “Okay, I understand,” though the fear in his eyes was undeniable. His gaze darted to Sherlock and John for a fleeting moment, as if seeking some sort of reprieve. Yet, neither man so much as flinched. John’s gun remained trained on him, and Sherlock’s steely gaze was unwavering.

As their conversation ended, Sherlock stepped forward, his voice a low, chilling murmur. “Pin the blueprint on Kim Shin Eun? You were planning to throw an innocent woman to the wolves?”

Arthur swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I had no choice,” he stammered. “They—they forced me into this. If I didn’t do what they asked… I’d be dead already.”

John’s expression darkened, his grip on the gun tightening. “And what about Catherine? What’s their plan for her?” His tone was hard, filled with barely controlled anger.

Arthur hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously between the two men. “I don’t know exactly. They didn’t tell me much about her, only that… only that she’s leverage.”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened at the word. “Leverage for what?”

Arthur hesitated, the fear in his eyes deepening. “For you. Moriarty —he knows how much she means to you. He wanted to… to get your attention, make you desperate. So that’s why Blackwood asked someone to kidnap her.”

Sherlock’s expression tightened, the mention of Catherine causing an almost imperceptible shift in his normally implacable demeanour. His mind raced, piecing together the puzzle. Blackwood wasn’t just orchestrating a theft, a mere criminal operation—this was personal. Moriarty’s fingerprints were all over it.

“Where is she?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and dangerous, his patience at its breaking point.

“I swear, I don’t know!” Arthur said quickly, his voice shaking. “I’m not high enough in the chain to know her exact location. They only tell me what I need to know. ”

Something wasn’t right.

Arthur’s eyes kept flicking towards John, avoiding mine. Most would chalk it up to fear—understandable when facing a gun and, well, me—but I know better. To me, it’s a clear signal of deceit.

A slight shift in posture—shoulders just a touch too hunched, breath just a fraction too quick. His fingers twitch, an involuntary tell. This isn’t just fear. He’s hiding something. Every unconscious movement, every flicker of his gaze, betrays him. He isn’t avoiding me because of fear alone. No, he’s avoiding me because he knows that if he looks me in the eye, I’ll see through every lie.

Interesting.

There it is again. That faint tremor in his voice. Subtle, but unmistakable. He’s trying to shift his anxiety toward John, as if John’s the bigger threat. Pathetic. Arthur Greene isn’t just lying—he’s concealing something significant. And I can practically hear it screaming to get out.

“You’re lying, ” Sherlock said, cutting through the tension, the deduction firm and precise.

Arthur froze, his face paling as Sherlock’s words landed like a hammer. His eyes flicked nervously from Sherlock to John, then back again, searching for an escape. The tension in the room thickened.

John stepped forward, the gun still steady in his hand. “Sherlock doesn’t ask questions unless he already knows the answer,” he said coldly, his eyes narrowing at Arthur. “So, I’d suggest you stop playing games and start telling the truth.”

Arthur swallowed hard, beads of sweat gathering on his brow. His fingers twitched again, now clenching the edge of the desk as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. “I… I’m not lying,” he stammered, but the wavering in his voice was unmistakable. Even he didn’t seem convinced by his own words anymore.

Sherlock crossed his arms, his gaze never leaving Arthur’s face. “Let me make this clear, Mr. Greene,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. “You have one chance. Tell us everything you know—everything—or I will dismantle your entire story piece by piece until you’re left with nothing but regret.”

Arthur’s breath quickened, his eyes wide with panic. He looked down at his hands, shaking on the desk, then backed up at the two men standing over him. His expression was betraying him, and he knew it. Whatever loyalty or fear was keeping him from speaking the truth was rapidly being outweighed by the very real threat in front of him.

“I… I don’t know the exact location,” Arthur admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… but I know who does.” His eyes flicked toward the phone on the desk. “Blackwood. They’re the ones handling Catherine. I’m just… following orders.”

Sherlock glanced at John, the silent communication between them instant. Time was running out, and they needed to act fast. John lowered his gun, but his gaze remained cold. “If anything happens to her, Greene—” Arthur nodded frantically, understanding the unspoken threat. “I’ll help. I’ll do whatever you need.”

John’s brow furrowed, suspicion flitting across his face, but he nodded—a silent acknowledgment. “So, what’s next, Sherlock? Do you have a plan?” he asked as he turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s lips curled into a subtle smirk, his mind racing several steps ahead. “Oh, I have a plan, John,” he replied, his tone cool and assured.

“In fact, I’ve had one since we stepped through that door.”

(18 Hours Left)

Chapter Text

On John’s phone:

J: “After six hours of searching, we think Kim Shin Eun is the one who stole the blueprint. What’s our next move?”

John quickly hit send, lifting his head to face Sherlock. “Sherlock, are you sure this is gonna work? It’s Arthur who stole the blueprint and sold it himself. What if Cath’s life is in danger because we’re given him the wrong answer?”

Sherlock sighed, giving John a sidelong glance. “John, you’re only seeing the surface.” His tone was calm but with that usual hint of impatience. “If we tell Mr. Mystery, who is likely Moriarty, that Arthur Greene stole the blueprint, we’d be signing Arthur’s death warrant. Moriarty would burn him for exposing too much, and Catherine would still be in danger. We need to control the narrative.”

John stared at Sherlock, brow furrowing deeper. He didn’t like it—none of it—but he knew Sherlock was right. Things were always more complicated beneath the surface, especially with Moriarty pulling the strings.

“So,” John said, a touch slower than usual, “You’re sending Moriarty down the wrong answer… buying us time.”

Sherlock gave a brief nod, his eyes gleaming with that familiar sharp focus. “Exactly. By leading him towards Kim Shin Eun, we keep him distracted—long enough to get the truth from them and find Catherine. Moriarty won’t move hastily if he thinks he still has control.”

Just before any of them respond, John’s phone receives a message from ‘Catherine’.

Catherine: “Oh no, my dearest friends, that’s not the correct answer. Think harder. You're so close, but you're looking in all the wrong places. The blueprint... well, let's just say, it's not where you'd expect. But don't worry, I’ll be watching every step you take. Tick-tock, gentlemen. Tick-tock.”

John gave the phone to Sherlock, Sherlock's grip on his phone tightened, his jaw clenched slightly, but his outward calm remained. “He’s playing with us,” he said, his voice low, almost cold. “Moriarty always enjoys a game.”

“What do we do then? We can’t just sit here while he’s got Cath.” John glanced at the message again, brow furrowing.
“He mentioned that you guys are close but looking in the wrong places. What does that even mean?” Arthur interrupted from the corner, obviously confused by this situation right now.
“Oh, for God sake, it’s obvious, Mr. Greene,” Sherlock replied, exasperation creeping into his tone. “He doesn’t know that we already knew the truth, so he’s attempting to lead us to it. If we fall into his trap, Catherine is as good as dead.”

Arthur’s face paled at the thought, but Sherlock wasn’t finished. “However, we can turn this to our advantage. You have contact with Blackwood, don’t you? You can help us get closer to the truth.”

Arthur shifted nervously, his eyes darting between Sherlock and John. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to arrange a meeting with Blackwood. Perhaps pretend that you want to discuss the blueprint, perhaps to placate any suspicions he may have about your involvement. We’ll use that opportunity to glean information and figure out where Catherine is being held.”

Arthur took a deep breath, realising the gravity of the situation. “I can try,” he said slowly. “Blackwood’s been on edge since the blueprint cases. He might not be receptive to a casual dinner. But if I can frame it as a meeting to discuss finances—perhaps payments related to the blueprint—I might get him to agree.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, his voice steady with encouragement. “Make it sound urgent. Emphasise that you need to resolve things quickly to ease tensions. If Blackwood thinks you’re genuinely invested in salvaging the deal, he’ll likely agree to meet.”

“Time is not on our side,” John interjected, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was already past 7 PM. “We only have 17 hours left before Moriarty makes his next move. If we’re going to do this, we need to act fast.”

Arthur nodded, a look of determination crossing his face. “Alright, I’ll call Blackwood right now and see if I can arrange something for later tonight. But what if he senses something is wrong ?”

Sherlock leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Then you’ll have to keep him off balance. Flatter him, make him believe you’re still loyal to his cause. If he feels secure in your allegiance, he might let his guard down, and that’s when we strike.”

“Right,” Arthur said, pulling out his phone, a sense of urgency kicking in. “I’ll get in touch with him immediately.”

As Arthur stepped aside to make the call, John turned to Sherlock, concern etched on his features. “What if it doesn’t go well? What if Blackwood refuses to meet him?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered with intensity. “Then we’ll have to improvise. We can’t afford to let this opportunity slip away. We’ll keep monitoring the situation and, if necessary, intervene directly. But for now, we need to give Arthur a chance to play his part.”

Moments later, Arthur returned, his face a mix of relief and apprehension. “He agreed to meet. We’ll have dinner at a restaurant downtown in just over an hour. I suggested discussing the financial details surrounding the blueprint.”

“Good. Let’s make sure we’re ready,” Sherlock replied, glancing at John. “We’ll follow him at a safe distance. If anything goes wrong, we’ll be there to intervene.” John nodded. “Let’s do this, then. Catherine’s counting on us.”

After half an hour of walking, they finally arrived at Angus Steakhouse.
“Evening, got a booking?” the receptionist asked with a warm smile, making polite eye contact.
“Yes, under the name Arthur Greene.”
“Ah, Mr Greene, welcome. Your table’s upstairs, just for two. And… the two gentlemen…?” She gestured politely towards Sherlock and John with an open hand.

“Oh, we’re with him,” John said, cutting in before Arthur could respond. “Just give us two seats on the second floor—preferably not too close.”

The receptionist hesitated for a moment, glancing at Arthur for confirmation. Arthur gave her a tight smile and a subtle nod.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s quick improvisation, but made no comment. “Thank you,” he said, tipping his head slightly to the receptionist as they were ushered upstairs. The three of them climbed the stairs, the ambient hum of conversation and soft clinks of cutlery surrounding them.

“Remember,” Sherlock whispered as they reached the top, “we need Blackwood to feel secure. Arthur, stick to the story, let him believe you're on his side. John and I will be close enough to hear, but we won’t intervene unless absolutely necessary.”

As Arthur took his seat, the low hum of voices and soft clinking of glasses filled the room, masking the anxious drumming of his fingers against his knee.

From across the room, Sherlock cast a sharp look at Arthur, a barely perceptible nod of encouragement. “Let’s hope Arthur can keep his nerves in check,” he murmured to John, his eyes never leaving the door.

Just then, Blackwood made his entrance. His stride was measured, every step exuding an air of authority that seemed to quiet the room as he approached. Arthur straightened, feeling the weight of Blackwood’s presence even before the man sat down, and for a split second, he wondered if Blackwood could see through him entirely.

Blackwood gave a brief nod to Arthur as he took his seat, facing opposite as where Sherlock is. His piercing eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Arthur,” Blackwood began smoothly, his voice low and almost dangerous. “I hope you won’t waste my time. Straight to the point.”

Arthur swallowed hard. "Yes, of course," he said, managing to keep his voice even. "But... before we discuss the payment, I think we need to clear up something about the blueprint."

Sherlock leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. This was the moment they had to play perfectly—Arthur had to steer the conversation without raising suspicion.

Just then, a waitress approached, her expression politely neutral. “I am so sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. May I take your orders?” Her voice held a delicate professionalism, yet there was an almost imperceptible hint of intrigue as she glanced between them.

Blackwood waved a hand dismissively. “A bottle of your finest red, and for myself, the steak, medium rare.” His gaze flicked toward Arthur. “And for you?”

Arthur managed a nod, his voice steady. “Medium well, please.” The waitress noted their choices and, with a brief smile, excused herself.

Moments later, she returned, carefully pouring the wine into polished glasses, its dark ruby sheen catching the candlelight. Blackwood lifted his glass, swirling it idly, his eyes never leaving Arthur’s as he took a measured sip, his brow arching with quiet amusement.

Blackwood raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. “What’s there to clear up, Arthur? A deal was struck, payment promised. Do we have a problem here?”

Arthur took a steady breath, leaning in as if confiding. “I wanted to raise… a potential complication,” he said, voice lowered, his gaze calculated. “Catherine Hudson. She’s a liability for Moriarty's plans, if I’m honest. I’m only concerned about my own… standing, should she interfere.”

Blackwood’s brow flickered—a barely noticeable reaction at the mention of her name. He smirked, shaking his head. “Let’s just say, that girl’s no longer an issue. Moriarty saw to it.”

“Ah,” Arthur nodded, his tone politely detached. “I only meant to suggest she’s… not to be underestimated. But as long as she’s out of the picture, then. Well, Moriarty does seem rather… interested in her.”

Blackwood chuckled, clearly amused. “Interested? If by that, you mean tucking her away somewhere safe and cosy while our friend Sherlock runs around in circles, then yes.” He took a sip of wine as he replied, his voice laced with dry sarcasm.

Arthur gave a quick, knowing nod, masking the thoughts racing through his mind. “Safe and cosy? Any chances for Sherlock to figure out where it is?” Arthur continued.

Blackwood set down his wine glass, his expression turning serious. “I think that’s too much information for you, Arthur. Let’s just say Catherine’s whereabouts are the least of your concerns. Moriarty’s plans are well in motion, and Catherine is exactly where she needs to be—out of Sherlock’s reach.”

Arthur held Blackwood’s gaze, his expression carefully measured, though a flicker of frustration pulsed beneath the surface. “Understood, of course,” he replied smoothly.

Blackwood’s eyes gleamed with a trace of menace. “I’d worry more about Sherlock’s moves than about a woman who’s already been dealt with. Stick to your task, Arthur, and all will proceed as planned.”

Arthur inclined his head, raising his glass in a silent toast, the wine barely touching his lips. Inside, he was already piecing together the faint hints Blackwood had unwittingly dropped.

As they continued talking, John leaned forward, half-concealing his face with his jacket. “Sherlock, Blackwood didn’t give us any information about Catherine’s location. What’s our next move?” he murmured, his tone edged with frustration. Sherlock didn’t answer immediately, his attention fixed on their conversation.

“Now which part of our deal has a problem? Or else what’s the purpose of you inviting me for a dinner? ” Blackwood questions Arthur.

Arthur met Blackwood’s gaze with calm composure. “Let’s just say I needed some reassurance,” he replied, pausing to gauge Blackwood’s reaction. “I’m not keen on risking any of my money going… astray.”

Blackwood scoffed, swirling his glass. “You worry too much, Arthur." He leaned back, his expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of impatience. “You’ll get your payment soon enough. ”

Just as Arthur and Blackwood were chatting, the same waitress who had served them walked by, balancing a tray laden with two different cuts of steak.

“Excuse me, miss. Could I borrow you for a moment?” Sherlock stopped her in her tracks. She looked at him, a bit thrown, but nodded politely. “Of course, sir, but let me just serve these to the gentlemen over there first.”

“Oh, no rush. It’s just that my friend here,” Sherlock said, gesturing to John, “thinks you’re lovely and was hoping for your number. He’s just a bit shy, you see.”

“Yeah… Wait—what?” John looked at Sherlock in utter confusion.

The waitress’s eyes lit up, a bit flustered but clearly charmed. “Just give me a sec.” She put down her tray, reaching into her apron for a scrap of paper.

John glared at Sherlock in complete disbelief. “Are you crazy? What was this all about?” he mouthed the words. Sherlock merely ignored him. As she bent to quickly jotted down her number on a napkin, Sherlock discreetly pulled a small vial from his coat, quickly pouring a few drops onto the medium-rare steak on her tray meant for Arthur and Blackwood’s table.

John’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to question Sherlock’s actions. Before he could get a word out, the waitress straightened up and handed him the note, leaning in to whisper, “Don’t forget to ring me,” before picking up her tray and heading toward Arthur and Blackwood’s table.

Once she was gone, Sherlock leaned back, a satisfied glint in his eyes. “Now we wait,” he murmured, ignoring John’s glare as they watched their plan unfold.

“Here’s your steak, gentlemen,” the waitress said, setting down the plates. “Thank you,” Arthur replied politely, while Blackwood merely nodded in acknowledgement.

As Blackwood sliced into his steak and took a bite, a subtle hint of a smile crept onto Sherlock’s face, his eyes glinting with anticipation. On the other side of the room, Arthur and Blackwood engaged in casual conversation, discussing trivial topics to avoid suspicion. Sherlock knew that Blackwood was too clever to let any information about Catherine’s location slip without a push.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and John leaned close, exchanging a quiet conversation of their own.

“So, what did you slip into Blackwood’s steak?” John muttered under his breath.
“Just a touch of chloral hydrate,” Sherlock replied casually, his eyes never leaving Arthur and Blackwood's table.
John frowned. “Chloral hydrate? What on earth is that?”
Sherlock let out a sigh. “It’s a sedative, John, makes him unconscious.”
John gave Sherlock a disbelieving look. “Right. Because knocking people out is the only way to get answers in your world.”
“Only when they’re uncooperative,” Sherlock murmured, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

John rolled his eyes but gave a resigned nod, glancing back at Blackwood. “Well, here’s hoping your little ‘seasoning’ does the trick.” Sherlock’s gaze sharpened as Blackwood took another bite, his expression darkening with anticipation. “Oh, it will.”

After about 15 minutes, Blackwood began to sway slightly after finishing his steak. “Arthur, don’t you think the wine has a pretty high ABV?” He propped his elbow on the table, his hand clenched into a fist, supporting his forehead to prevent himself from passing out.

Arthur’s eyes widened slightly as he watched Blackwood struggle to keep his composure, his face slowly growing paler. Arthur responded, “You don’t look so good. Perhaps you should slow down.”

Blackwood’s eyes narrowed, blinking slowly as he tried to focus. “Slow down? I’m perfectly… perfectly fine.” His words slurred slightly, and he loosened his tie in an attempt to stay alert. But his eyelids grew heavier with each passing second.

Sherlock watched intently from their vantage point, a flicker of satisfaction lighting his eyes. Leaning closer, he whispered, “This is it, John. He’ll be far more… pliable now. Arthur just needs to nudge him in the right direction.”

John gave a small nod, shifting his gaze back to the two men. “Let’s hope Arthur knows what to ask.”

At the table, Arthur cleared his throat, feigning concern as he watched Blackwood struggle. “Are you alright, Blackwood? You look… a little out of it. Maybe you should sit back for a moment, take it easy.”

Blackwood huffed, trying to put on a brave front, but his strength was waning. “Nonsense,” he muttered. “I’m fine… I don’t need… anyone’s help.”

Arthur took the opportunity to lower his voice, leaning in closer as if to share a secret. “You know, Blackwood, about the blueprint… I’ve been having second thoughts. This whole thing with Moriarty—well, let’s just say, it’s getting complicated. I was wondering if perhaps… there’s a safer place for it.”

Blackwood’s eyes flickered, a hint of suspicion mixed with his groggy state. He attempted to focus on Arthur, his words coming out sluggishly. “The blueprint… it’s… it’s in a safe place.”

Arthur leaned in even closer, his expression laced with urgency. “And where is that, Blackwood?” Blackwood blinked, fighting to keep his focus. “It’s… it’s with me… always… Can’t risk anyone… finding it…”

Sherlock’s face lit up, his smile widening at the confirmation. “He keeps it on him,” he whispered to John.
John raised an eyebrow, keeping his voice low. “So he’s carrying it right now?”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied, his mind already racing ahead.

Arthur, picking up on Sherlock’s subtle nod from across the room, decided to press a bit further. “Look, Blackwood, if something happens to you, Moriarty will kill me. I need to know I’m safe too. Where exactly are you keeping it?”

Blackwood groaned, his head drooping, his voice barely a mumble. “My hotel…room.” That was all Sherlock needed. He turned to John, eyes blazing with determination. “Let’s move. Now’s our moment.”

As they turned to leave, John couldn’t resist a final glance at the sedated Blackwood. “Well, that went smoother than expected,” he murmured.

Sherlock smirked. “Indeed. But we’re far from done.” As they began to check out their bills, a voice called out from across the room.

“Oh, gentlemen, it’s on me,” Arthur drawled, offering a casual wave and a faint smile.

John raised an eyebrow, a touch of confusion creasing his face. “But… aren’t you—?” he began, before a nudge from Sherlock stopped him mid-sentence. Sherlock gave him a pointed look, and John quickly bit back the rest of his words, realising there was more to this than Arthur's apparent generosity.

At the counter, Arthur handed over a credit card to the receptionist. “Both tables, if you please,” he said smoothly, a glint of something mischievous in his eyes. The receptionist nodded, taking the card and processing the payment.

Sherlock leaned in, voice low. “Blackwood?”

Arthur inclined his head slightly, lowering his voice. “Knocked out at the table. I’ll see he’s bundled into a cab soon enough.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Picked his pocket, did you?”

Arthur’s smile turned wry. “Let’s just call it a security measure,” he replied. “His loyalty to Moriarty, after all, and we both know that comes at a price.”
Sherlock chuckled quietly. “Perhaps he’ll appreciate the irony.”

With everything settled, the three men headed out of the restaurant. Arthur and John supporting unconscious Blackwood between them. Arthur managed to flag down a cab with his free hand, and within seconds, one pulled up.

“Heading where young men? ” the cabbie said.
“The Crown London Hotel, please,” Arthur replied smoothly. “Let’s go, John,” Sherlock continued. John shot him a wary look. “Sherlock, weren’t we just here for Catherine’s location? Why are we—”
“Get in, John,” Sherlock interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.
John huffed but climbed in, helping Arthur ease Blackwood into the front seat, while he, Sherlock, and Arthur settled into the back.

The moment they were inside, John turned to Sherlock, who sat in the middle, his expression intent. “Mind explaining why we’re headed to Blackwood’s hotel instead of going after Catherine?”

Sherlock shot him a wry look. “Really, John? Do you imagine I’d actually let Blackwood walk away with that blueprint?” He paused for effect, his gaze narrowing. “Besides, I already have my people narrowing down locations for Catherine.”

Arthur, catching the drift, raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you have people on this already? He didn’t even tell us where Catherine is.”

Sherlock’s lip curled into a faint smirk. “People like you two see only what’s right in front of you, don’t you?” He leaned back, his mind clearly racing. “Think, gentlemen. Blackwood knew exactly where Catherine was. Most likely, he took her phone and passed it to Moriarty himself. Oh, you guys are probably gonna ask, ‘why doesn't his assistant or Moriarty himself handle it directly?’ Look carefully - a faint trace of dust on his sleeve. He’s meticulous, a man who wouldn’t tolerate a speck of dust… unless he’d been somewhere abandoned, and that’s why he came to this dinner in a rush. ”

Arthur’s eyes widened, clearly intrigued. “So, you’re saying—”
“I’ve got contacts combing through a list of abandoned spots in London,” Sherlock continued, unbothered by their surprise.
Arthur gave an approving nod. “Impressive.”
Sherlock didn’t give any response, as his mind was already thinking of the next move.

(16 Hours Left)

Chapter Text

As they arrived at The Crown London Hotel, Sherlock stepped out of the cab first, tossing a generous tip to the cabbie without a second glance. John and Arthur followed, each supporting one of Blackwood's arms over their shoulders as they dragged his unconscious, dead weight between them, muttering about how heavy he was.

Sherlock moved ahead at a brisk pace, his coat sweeping behind him, completely unbothered by the spectacle his companions were making. The hotel lobby greeted him with a blend of polished wood, subtle floral arrangements, and a faint murmur of discreet luxury. His eyes flickered over the lift, the reception desk, and the row of mailboxes behind it in quick succession.

John grunted as he and Arthur finally managed to settle Blackwood onto a nearby couch. “Sherlock,” he hissed, straightening up and glaring at his friend’s retreating figure, “what exactly are we supposed to do with him? He’s not a sack of potatoes.”

Arthur smirked faintly. “Could’ve fooled me. The bloke’s as heavy as one.”
“Find a seat,” Sherlock replied over his shoulder, utterly disinterested. “I’ll deal with it.”

John muttered under his breath, but he and Arthur complied, sitting on either side of Blackwood like begrudging bodyguards. The occasional curious glance from hotel staff was met with a pointed glare from Arthur, effectively deterring any awkward questions.

Sherlock approached the reception desk, his steps measured, his expression one of polite impatience. The receptionist, a composed man whose name tag read Carter, looked up, offering a professional smile.

“Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?” Sherlock leaned casually against the counter, the faintest smile curling his lips. “Good evening, Mr. Carter. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Blackwood. Unfortunately, there seems to have been some confusion regarding his luggage. He’s asked me to retrieve something of importance, but communication has been... patchy.”

Carter’s smile faltered slightly. “I see, sir, but for privacy reasons, I’m afraid I can’t disclose any information about our guests.”

Sherlock tilted his head, adopting a look of faint irritation. “Of course, privacy. Essentially, I quite agree. But consider this: if I were to guess incorrectly and disturb the wrong guest, I imagine that would be an inconvenience for all involved. It would reflect poorly on your establishment, wouldn’t it?”

The receptionist hesitated, visibly weighing the situation. “I understand your concern, but I really—” Sherlock cut in smoothly, his tone patient yet firm. “I don’t need specifics, Mr. Carter. Just confirmation. Mr. Blackwood did mention the third floor earlier, didn’t he?”

Carter hesitated, glancing towards his screen, before nodding reluctantly. “I think there’s mistake, in the system it show that he is in fourth floor-”

“Thank you, Mr. Carter. You’ve been most helpful.” Without another word, Sherlock turned and strode back to John and Arthur, who were now fully slumped on the couch, clearly regretting their roles as Blackwood’s handlers.

“Well?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Fourth floor,” Sherlock replied simply, already heading for the lift.

The three men shuffled Blackwood into the lift, a barely-conscious weight between Arthur and John. As the doors slid shut, Sherlock turned his attention to Blackwood, his hands swiftly and methodically patting the man down.

“Sherlock,” John said, voice low but edged with incredulity, “what exactly are you doing?”

Arthur, equally bewildered, started to speak but stopped when John waved a hand at him, clearly wanting Sherlock to explain himself. Sherlock didn’t even glance up, his focus entirely on his task. “What does it look like I’m doing, John?”

Before John could reply, Sherlock’s hand closed around a slim object in Blackwood’s jacket. With a triumphant smirk, he pulled out a key card. “Ah. Here we are.”

Arthur leaned over slightly, inspecting the card. “No room number on it. Pretty common in hotels like this.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, slipping the card into his pocket.

The lift dinged as it reached the fourth floor, the atmosphere thick with tension. Sherlock stepped out first, his movements brisk and deliberate. His sharp eyes darted around the corridor, taking in every detail. The hallway stretched before them, lined with identical doors, each one concealing its own secrets.

John leaned closer to Sherlock, his voice a hushed murmur. “What’s the plan? We can’t possibly check every room. It’d take all night.”

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately, his focus unwavering as he continued his silent examination. He walked down the corridor, his keen gaze flicked from the ceiling to the floor, every detail feeding into the intricate puzzle forming in his mind. After a few minutes, he came back and knelt abruptly on the floor, seemingly unbothered by John and Arthur’s baffled expressions.

“Sherlock,” John whispered again, crouching beside him, his voice tinged with exasperation. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead reaching out to lift the edge of Blackwood’s shoe with surprising precision, tilting it slightly to inspect the sole. John opened his mouth to protest but stopped when Sherlock finally spoke.

“Follow me,” Sherlock commanded, standing with a renewed certainty in his posture. He strode confidently down the hallway, his footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Without hesitation, he stopped in front of a specific door and gestured towards the handle.

“This one,” he murmured, his voice calm but resolute. He ran a gloved finger along the brass handle, pointing out faint scratches. “Impatient. Likely frequented. Blackwood.”

Arthur frowned, glancing between Sherlock and the unremarkable door. “How can you be sure?” he asked skeptically.

Sherlock crouched again, this time indicating faint scuff marks near the base of the doorframe. “Fresh mud,” he explained, his tone clipped but confident. “The same shade and texture as what’s on Blackwood’s shoes. Must be his room then.”

John shook his head, still trying to catch up. “You figured that out from his shoes? Of course you did.”

Sherlock straightened, brushing his hands against his coat, ignoring John's expectant gaze. Pulling the key card from his pocket, he unlocked the door without hesitation, the darkness from the gap showed that there’s no one else in the room.

With a flick of the switch, the room revealed itself, bathed in a soft golden glow. Blackwood’s choice of accommodation matched his tastes: luxurious, expansive, and meticulously styled. The King Suite Double Room boasted a modern elegance, its king-sized bed adorned with crisp white linens. A sleek partition with a mounted flat-screen TV divided the sleeping area from the lounge, where plush leather armchairs beckoned.

Arthur and John entered behind him, carefully laying Blackwood’s unconscious form on the bed. “Not bad for a criminal like him,” Arthur remarked, slumping into one of the armchairs. John joined him, settling across from Blackwood with a weary sigh.

Sherlock, however, was already moving. His sharp eyes scanned the room, noting every detail with practised efficiency. His attention snagged on a polished leather briefcase partially hidden beneath the bed. He crouched, retrieving it with fluid precision.

“Locked,” he murmured, tilting it to examine the combination dials. The numbers gleamed faintly, untouched by smudges—a sign it hadn’t been tampered with since its last use. “People are creatures of habit.” “Fascinating observation,” John quipped, though his tone lacked bite.

Sherlock ignored him, his gaze flicking to a photograph on the bedside table. It featured Blackwood standing beside an older woman, her striking resemblance to him undeniable. “His mother,” Sherlock deduced aloud, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Mama boy I see.”

Arthur leaned forward. “Do you think that will help us crack the lock?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled Blackwood’s wallet from his coat and extracted a CitizenCard. He examined the date of birth: 15 October 1984.

“His full birth date would be too obvious,” Sherlock muttered, more to himself than to his companions. His mind whirred, considering possibilities. He glanced at the photograph again. “She’s in her mid-fifties—born in 1955 or thereabouts.”

Adjusting the briefcase dials, he tried 1-9-5-5. No luck. Undeterred, he turned the last digit.

“People often fudge details for sentimentality,” he murmured, the final digit clicking into place at 1-9-5-7. The lock yielded with a satisfying snap.

“Got it.” Sherlock unfurled the blueprint just enough to confirm its authenticity before rolling it back up. He straightened, holding it aloft like a trophy.

John stared at him, incredulous. “You’re telling me you worked all that out from a photograph?”

Sherlock’s gaze was steely, his tone almost patronising. “Details, John. Sentimentality tied to his mother—someone like Blackwood would consider it both personal and clever enough to deter most attempts. Not mine.”

Arthur tilted his head, unimpressed. “And if it hadn’t worked?”
Sherlock’s smirk deepened. “It always does.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “That was... quicker than expected.”
“No time for surprises,” Sherlock replied, he took his cellphone and checked for updates of the abandoned places in London.

“Five locations,” he announced, turning to John and Arthur. “Let’s eliminate them systematically. The first is an old printing factory in Lambeth.” He tapped the map with his finger. “It's been overtaken by squatters and the homeless—too crowded for Moriarty’s purposes. He’d never risk that level of exposure.”

John nodded, leaning over to study the map. “Fair enough. What about the rest?”

“An abandoned office complex near Tower Bridge,” Sherlock said, his lip curling slightly. “But it’s under constant patrol by a private security firm. That rules it out—Moriarty would avoid any external surveillance.”

Arthur frowned, gesturing to the third place in Sherlock’s phone. “This one looks remote.”
“Indeed,” Sherlock replied. “An empty theatre in Soho. However, it’s scheduled for renovations. Contractors have been making regular inspections.” He glanced up, his expression sharp. “Moriarty doesn’t leave loose ends like that.”

John gestured to the next one. “And the fourth?”
“A disused train depot,” Sherlock said briskly. “Tempting, but it’s far too exposed to passersby. Even with the tracks out of service, it’s still a popular shortcut for locals.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “That leaves the last one.”
Sherlock’s smirk returned as he tapped the map firmly. “The fifth—a derelict warehouse near the docks. Remote, no regular traffic, and perfect for keeping someone out of sight for a prolonged period.”

Arthur adjusted his coat with a purposeful nod. “Then that’s settled.”
“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, his smirk curling wider.
John stood, tugging his coat into place. “What are we waiting for, then?” “Nothing,” Sherlock echoed, his voice clipped. “Let’s move.”

Just as they were about to leave, Sherlock paused, looking at Blackwood’s unconscious form sprawled across the bed. “Happy early birthday,” he murmured with a sardonic edge, before stepping out.

In the lift, John frowned, crossing his arms. “Why on earth would you wish him a happy early birthday?”
Sherlock’s reply came without hesitation, his tone dry. “A reminder that even his most personal details are laughably predictable.”

John shot him a disapproving glare. “Really, Sherlock? Was that necessary?”
“Why not?” Sherlock’s voice was brisk, unapologetic.

Arthur leaned against the wall of the lift, his expression bemused. “You do have a unique way of celebrating birthdays.”

As they exited the hotel, Arthur raised a hand for a cab and directed the driver to their destination. The car eased into the late-night traffic, the city lights blurring against the windows.

John leaned forward, his tone edged with concern. “Sherlock, what if Catherine isn’t there?”

Sherlock, his gaze fixed on the night sky, didn’t so much as flinch. “Then we eliminate the improbable and move on to the next possibility. Time is not on our side, but neither is luck.”

John folded his arms. “You’re not seriously relying on luck, are you?”

“Of course not, John,” Sherlock retorted, his tone sharp. “Logic dictates our actions, not hope.”

Arthur shifted slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve got five options, Holmes. This one’s the best, sure, but it’s still just a guess.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Not a guess—an informed deduction. Moriarty values control and subtlety. The other locations are too exposed or too obvious. This warehouse is isolated, defensible, and inconspicuous. Were I him, it’s precisely where I’d choose.”

Arthur tilted his head. “Fair enough. But you’re not Moriarty.”
“Thankfully,” John muttered, prompting a quiet chuckle from Arthur.
Sherlock remained unfazed, his tone even. “Moriarty and I operate on similar principles, Arthur, though I prefer to stay within the bounds of morality.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Morality, eh? Bold words for someone who just broke into a hotel room and picked a lock.”
Sherlock’s expression sharpened, his voice clipped. “Morality doesn’t exclude necessity. The distinction lies in intent.”

John let out a resigned sigh, leaning back against the seat. “Here we go again.”
Arthur shook his head, still chuckling. “So what’s the plan if she’s not there? You said time isn’t on our side.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers, his gaze resolute. “We adapt. If she’s not there, the trail will point us in the right direction. Moriarty may be clever, but he’s not infallible. He always leaves breadcrumbs.”

The car began to weave through the docklands, the dim orange lights giving way to the shadowy silhouettes of warehouses.
“For her sake,” John muttered, staring out of the window, “I hope you’re right.”
Sherlock’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping to a quiet but firm resolve. “So do I, John. So do I.”

The cab rolled to a stop a few blocks from the warehouse, the faint hum of the docklands blending with the distant crash of waves against the shore. Sherlock stepped out first, his sharp gaze sweeping over the derelict structure looming ahead. The building was a shadowy silhouette against the dim glow of the streetlights, its corrugated metal walls streaked with rust and graffiti.
Arthur joined him, shoving his hands into his pockets to ward off the cold. “Well, it’s charming,” he muttered.

“Quiet,” Sherlock snapped, already moving towards the building with a purposeful stride.
John caught up, his boots crunching against gravel. “What’s the plan? I’m guessing it doesn’t involve just knocking on the door.”

Sherlock shot him a withering look. “Of course not, John. That would be absurd.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “So, how do you plan to get in? That door doesn’t exactly look inviting.” He gestured to the heavy roller shutter at the front, its padlock glinting in the faint light.

Sherlock crouched by the door, inspecting the padlock and surrounding mechanisms. “Standard issue. Sturdy but not infallible.” He pulled a small lock-picking kit from his coat, the tools gleaming as he set to work.

John glanced around nervously. “Let’s hope no one’s watching. Breaking and entering isn’t exactly legal, you know.”
“Neither is kidnapping,” Sherlock replied coolly, his focus on the lock.

Arthur stood back, scanning the area for potential threats. The street was deserted, the warehouse isolated by its proximity to the docks. “We might want to hurry. This place gives me the creeps.”
With a soft click, the padlock released, and Sherlock smirked. “Done.”
“Show-off,” John muttered.

As soon as Sherlock rolled the heavy shutter door up, the harsh screech of metal filled the silent dockyard. The dim street light outside barely reached into the warehouse, casting long, shifting shadows across the room.

There, in the centre of the space, sat Catherine, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her auburn hair messy and face streaked with dried tears. The sight of her made John suck in a sharp breath, his eyes darting to Sherlock.

Catherine’s head jerked up at the noise, her wide, brown eyes filled with both fear and hope. When she saw them, she froze for a moment, as if afraid to believe it.

“Catherine,” Sherlock said, his voice steady but quieter than usual. He stepped inside, John and Arthur following close behind.

Her lip trembled, and then, like a dam breaking, she burst into tears. “You found me,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

John moved forward quickly, crouching beside her. “It’s alright. You’re safe now,” he said gently, his hand resting on her shoulder.

Sherlock scanned the warehouse, his piercing gaze ensuring they weren’t walking into a trap. Once satisfied, he crouched opposite John, his expression softening as he spoke. “We’re getting you out of here. Can you stand?”

Catherine sniffled, nodding weakly. “I think so,” she murmured, though her hands trembled as she reached out.

Arthur, standing a little awkwardly behind them, stepped closer. “Here, let me,” he offered, bending to help lift her to her feet.

Catherine leaned on him briefly, but her eyes stayed fixed on Sherlock. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sherlock didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on her pale face. Finally, he nodded. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said, his tone softer than usual.

John glanced back at the door. “We should leave. If anyone’s coming back, they’ll know we’ve been here.”
“Agreed,” Sherlock said, already leading the way out.

As they stepped into the cool night air, Catherine tilted her face up, inhaling deeply as if to reassure herself it was real. The relief on her face was evident, though her steps were still unsteady.

“Let’s get her somewhere safe,” Sherlock said briskly, flagging down a cab waiting nearby. Arthur slipped into the front seat, leaving Sherlock and John to settle in the back with Catherine.

As the cab rumbled forward, Sherlock took the opportunity to explain the situation. “The man in the front,” he gestured to Arthur with a slight tilt of his head, “is Arthur Greene, an unfortunate participant in Moriarty’s latest scheme. You were drugged with a sedative, likely Rohypnol—something Moriarty is fond of using. He’s behind all of this, of course...”

Catherine listened quietly at first, her head resting lightly against John’s shoulder. But as Sherlock’s relentless analysis continued, her eyelids grew heavy, and soon she drifted into sleep. Her head tilted against the window, the soft hum of the cab mingling with her steady, shallow breaths. The dim glow of passing street lights illuminated her face, making her exhaustion painfully evident.

Sherlock paused mid-sentence, his sharp gaze softening as he noticed her sleeping form. For a moment, the cab fell into silence, save for the muffled sounds of the city outside.

An hour later, the cab pulled up in front of Catherine’s apartment. John leaned forward to pay the driver while Sherlock carefully opened the door and stepped into the crisp night air. Arthur followed, casting a quick glance at Catherine, still sound asleep.

“She’s out cold,” Arthur murmured, his voice low.
Sherlock bent down and carefully scooped Catherine into his arms, his movements deliberate and precise, as if she might shatter with the slightest misstep. Her weight felt light against him, a stark reminder of how much the ordeal had drained her.

Arthur, standing a little awkwardly beside him, whispered, “Do you think she still has her key in her coat?”
Sherlock shot him a sharp look, his voice cutting but hushed. “Do you think Moriarty would leave her with a key?”

Arthur opened his mouth to retort but thought better of it, settling for a sheepish shrug. John took the lead, walking up the narrow staircase to Catherine’s apartment and knocking firmly on the door. The sound echoed faintly in the quiet corridor.
After a moment, there was a shuffling sound from inside, followed by the door creaking open. Mr Frasco, Catherine’s landlord, peered out. His brow furrowed when he saw the trio on his doorstep, with Catherine unconscious in Sherlock’s arms.

“What on earth—” he began, his eyes widening in alarm.
“She’s been through a lot,” John said, his voice calm but firm. “She needs rest. Can we get her inside?”

Mr Frasco hesitated for a moment, then nodded, stepping aside. “Of course, of course. Bring her in.”

Sherlock carried Catherine into her room, carefully laying her down on her bead. Her head lolled slightly, but she stirred just enough to murmur something unintelligible before settling again.
John cleared his throat. “We should let her sleep.”

Sherlock nodded, his gaze lingering on Catherine for just a moment longer before he stood up. “We should leave. She’ll be safe here.”

John nodded but hesitated before turning toward Mr. Frasco, who was now standing in the doorway, watching them closely.
“We’ll be back in the morning,” John said, a silent promise in his tone.

Mr. Frasco crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll keep an eye on her. She’s safe here,” he said, his voice unwavering. It wasn’t a question, but a statement that made it clear they could trust him.

With a final glance at Catherine, Sherlock, John, and Arthur turned and left the apartment, descending the narrow staircase into the cool embrace of the night air. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the silence to reclaim the space.

Sherlock broke the quiet first, his voice low as his fingers crossed across his phone screen. “We’ll need to keep a low profile. Moriarty will have eyes everywhere.”

John exhaled, his gaze drifting back to the darkened building. “For now, we wait. We keep her safe.”
Arthur nodded, his tone resolute. “And we prepare for whatever comes next.”

John’s eyes shifted to Sherlock, who remained unusually quiet, save for the rapid tapping of keys from his side. “Who are you texting, Sherlock?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied briskly, eyes still fixed on his screen. “Letting him know Catherine’s safe—and where to find Blackwood.”

The three continued their walk into the shadows, the weight of what lay ahead settling heavily over them. Moriarty’s game was far from over, and they all knew it.

Chapter Text

Saturday
8:00 a.m.
9th October 2010

Dear Diary,
How should I even begin? Yesterday was such a terrifying experience that I couldn’t bring myself to write about it until now. I was utterly drained—physically and emotionally.

It all started as I was walking to Baker Street, casually texting John. Yes, I know Mum always tells me not to look at my phone while walking, but... let’s just say I learned my lesson the hard way.

Out of nowhere, this man appeared—some creep with no regard for personal space—and clamped something over my mouth. The next thing I knew, everything went dark. Sherlock said later that it was Rohypnol. Whatever it was, I don’t want to know. All I could focus on was the dizziness and how my brain felt like it had been scrambled.

When I came to, I was in an unfamiliar, pitch-black room. My body felt heavy, and my thoughts were a jumbled mess. I remember fumbling for my phone, but of course, it was gone— snatched by that absolute jerk Moriarty. Ugh! On the bright side, it’s a good excuse to buy a new iPhone 4... right? :)

The room I was in turned out to be an old, windowless warehouse. There was barely any light except for a faint glow seeping through the gap beneath the roller shutter door. Judging by the fading daylight, it must have been close to 6 p.m. Stupid Daylight Saving Time makes everything darker sooner—one more thing to hate about yesterday.

I tried to stand, but my legs were wobbly, and the dull ache from my old injury only made things harder. I shuffled around, hoping to find some kind of clue about where I was. But all I could do was pace the cold floor, running my fingers over the walls, feeling utterly helpless.

At one point, I kicked the roller shutter in sheer frustration. Of course, it didn’t budge. “Brilliant plan, Catherine,” I muttered to myself, the sound of my voice barely masking the rising panic.

I don’t know when I started crying—probably after realising there wasn’t a single way out. It’s embarrassing to admit, but, hey, this is my diary. No one else gets to see it (I hope). Exhaustion must have taken over because, at some point, I fell asleep.

I was awakened by a sound. Footsteps. My heart raced, caught between hope and fear. I held my breath, straining to hear more. The steps grew louder, closer, and then—BANG! The roller shutter shot upwards with a deafening clang.

Framed by the light from outside stood Sherlock, with John just behind him. I could hardly believe my eyes. Relief hit me like a tidal wave, and before I knew it, tears welled up. “You found me,” I whispered, my voice was shaking so bad.

John crouched beside me, his voice as steady as always. “It’s alright. You’re safe now.” He rested a hand on my shoulder, and I felt a small spark of reassurance.

Sherlock was scanning the warehouse, his sharp eyes ensuring the place wasn’t a trap. Once he was satisfied, he crouched down, his expression softer than I’d ever seen. “We’re getting you out of here,” he said, his voice steady. “Can you stand?”

I nodded weakly, even though my legs felt like jelly. Arthur, who apparently is one of the dudes who kinda made me end up like this, stepped in to help me up, his hands firm but gentle. I leaned on him for a moment, but my eyes stayed on Sherlock. “Thank you,” I murmured, though my voice was barely audible.

Sherlock just nodded, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than usual. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said quietly. John glanced at the door. “We need to go,” he said. “If anyone’s coming back, they’ll know we were here.”

Sherlock didn’t waste a second, leading the way out. When we stepped into the cool night air, I took a deep breath, letting it wash over me. It felt surreal like I’d just woken up from a terrible nightmare. My legs were still unsteady, and every step felt like an effort, but I was free.

Sherlock flagged down a cab, and none of us spoke as we climbed inside. As soon as the cabbie drives, Sherlock is yapping about who is the reason behind all these, why i ended up in a situation like this, what makes me unconscious. Honestly I appreciate it, however I was really tired even though I slept for so long.

I woke up in my bed this morning, sunlight pouring through the curtains. For a moment, I just lay there, letting the warmth of the morning wrap around me. The events of last night played back in my mind—the fear, the darkness, the rescue. It still felt surreal. But here I am, alive, safe, and home.

London seemed unusually cheerful today. I could hear the hum of traffic outside, mingled with laughter and the distant chatter of children. The world felt normal again, and for that, I’m thankful.

Yesterday was a nightmare I’ll never forget, but if nothing else, it’s taught me to appreciate the little things—like sunlight, laughter, and having people who will come for you, no matter what.

Here’s to never take those things for granted.

Chapter Text

The first rays of morning light filtered through the curtains in Catherine's living room, casting delicate golden streaks across the walls. She sat at her writing desk with her half wet hair, pen gliding across the pages of her diary. The soft melody of Just the Way You Are by Bruno Mars played faintly from the radio, blending harmoniously with the rich aroma of hot cocoa steaming beside her. For a moment, everything felt serene, as though the world itself had paused to savour the peace.

A knock at the door disrupted, breaking her reverie. Catherine finished her final sentence, before heading to the door. She opened it to find Mr. Frasco standing there, a warm smile on his face and a tray of breakfast in his hands. The tantalising smell of freshly baked bread and sizzling eggs wafted towards her.

“I hope my cooking still meets your standards,” Mr. Frasco quipped, his tone light and teasing, a clear sign he had grown fond of Catherine’s company.

Catherine chuckled, her eyes crinkling with genuine warmth. “Of course, I do, Mr. Frasco. Thank you for treating me to such a delicious breakfast. ” Her words were sincere, her appreciation evident. “By the way, how did you know I was already awake ?” She asked

Mr. Frasco’s smile widened as he handed her the tray. “Enjoy, Cath. It’s always a pleasure to see someone enjoy a good meal. To answer your question, I can hear you singing while showering downstairs,” he chuckled.

Catherine’s face turns red of embarrassment. Mr Frasco realised Catherine's embarrassment, with that, he gave a polite nod and turned away, leaving Catherine to savour both the meal and the tranquil start to her morning.

Catherine had just finished her breakfast when the sound of another knock echoed through the apartment. This time, it was sharper, more deliberate. Setting the tray aside, she walked to the door, her brows knitting in curiosity.

Opening it, she was met with Sherlock's imposing figure, his coat slightly windswept and his expression as unreadable as ever.
“Good morning,” he greeted curtly, though there was something softer in his tone than she remembered.
“Sherlock?” Catherine's surprise is evident. “What are you doing here?”

He glanced past her into the apartment, as if assessing its suitability. “John thought it wise for someone to check in,” he replied, though the way his eyes lingered on her suggested this wasn’t entirely John’s idea.

Catherine stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. “Well, come in then. You’re not planning to hover in the hallway, are you?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but complied, stepping inside with his usual purposeful stride. His gaze swept over her living room, taking in the neatly stacked books, the steaming cup of cocoa, and the closed diary on the desk.

“Writing, I see. Same as John,” he remarked, gesturing subtly toward the diary.
“It helps,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “To sort through everything that’s happened.”
Sherlock’s expression softened ever so slightly. “And has it helped? Sorting through... everything?”

Catherine hesitated, her eyes meeting his. “Maybe,” she said honestly.

Sherlock nodded, as if understanding far more than he let on. He turned his attention back to her, his piercing gaze unusually warm. “You were brave, Catherine. Not just in what you endured, but in how you’ve handled it since.”

Her breath hitched, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “Coming from you, that means a lot,” she said, her lips curving into a small smile.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, his back still turned.
Catherine’s smile faltered slightly. “Well enough.”
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable.
“I owe you an apology,” he began, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant. “For couple of days ago. I know I haven’t made it easy. For us to—” He broke off, searching for the right words. “Work together.”

Catherine tilted her head, her smile softening. “You’re not exactly the easiest person to get along with, Sherlock. But I suppose I’m not either.”

A brief silence settled between them before Sherlock spoke again. “I don’t expect an apology will fix things, but I am sorry—for the way I handled... everything before.”

Her eyes widened slightly, startled by his candour. “Sherlock Holmes apologising? Should I write this down in my diary?”

A low chuckle escaped him, surprising them both. “If it pleases you,” he replied with a faint smirk. The light-hearted moment eased the tension, and Catherine felt a flicker of the camaraderie they’d once shared. She gestured toward the sofa. “Well, since you’re here, would you like some hot cocoa too? Or is that too ordinary for you?”

He hesitated before nodding. “Hot cocoa is alright.”

As she busied herself in the kitchen, the quiet hum of normalcy returned to the apartment. Sherlock sat at the small dining table, his sharp eyes following her movements as she prepared cocoa. By the time she handed him the mug, steam curling softly from the surface, her curiosity had gotten the better of her.

“So, did y’all catch Moriarty and arrest… uh, Arthur? I don’t really remember his name, I’m so sorry,” she asked, her brow furrowing apologetically as she leaned against the counter.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with faint amusement. “Arthur,” he repeated, his tone dry but not unkind, “He is not the criminal in this equation. He may have made a poor decision, but his cooperation has been invaluable in unraveling Moriarty’s plans.”

Catherine nodded slowly, cradling her own mug in her hands. “Right. So, no handcuffs for him, then?” she quipped, a flicker of humour in her voice.

Sherlock’s expression remained serious, though there was a glint in his eye. “Not yet, at least. As for Moriarty…” He leaned back slightly, the weight of the name settling over the room. “He’s as elusive as ever. This was only one of his many schemes. He’s still out there.”

Her playful smile faded, replaced by a quiet solemnity. “I see. So, it’s not really over, is it?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted, his voice low. “But we’ve gained something valuable—time, and information. That could make all the difference.”

Catherine sipped her tea, her gaze drifting over the rising steam. “Well,” she murmured, her tone distant, “let’s hope it’s enough.”

Sherlock placed his mug down with a decisive clink, his fingers steepled as he considered her. After a moment’s pause, his voice broke through the quiet. “Catherine,” he began, his tone deliberate, “perhaps it’s time you stepped outside for a while.”

She glanced up at him, caught off guard. “Stepping outside? You mean like a walk?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, straightening his coat as he stood. “The mind thrives on change, Catherine. A breath of fresh air is often more effective than one assumes.”

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she carried their mugs to the sink. “Right, because a casual stroll while Moriarty looms in the shadows is exactly the relaxation technique I was looking for.”

Sherlock followed her, leaning on the kitchen doorway with his characteristic air of detachment. Yet his voice held a surprising warmth as he replied, “Moriarty thrives on fear, Catherine. Don’t give him the satisfaction of chaining you to it.”

She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Easy for you to say. You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“That,” Sherlock countered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, “is why you’re underestimated. And why you’re safer than you think.”

Catherine rolled her eyes, but her mouth betrayed a reluctant smile. “Oh, so now you’re my personal bodyguard, are you?”

Sherlock’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a playful edge to his tone. “Consider it an added service. As long as you’re with me, Moriarty won’t risk a move.”

She turned back to the sink, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’ve an impressive talent for making the absurd sound convincing.”
Through her eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. “If this ends in a bad way, Sherlock, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“Alright,” he said smoothly.
Catherine laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Well, give me a moment to prepare myself.”
Sherlock inclined his head slightly. “Take your time.”

She stepped into her bedroom, glancing at her reflection in the mirror as she deliberated over her outfit. Eventually, she chose a long beige overcoat layered over a fitted white turtleneck, paired with tailored beige trousers that accentuated her sleek silhouette.
A statement belt cinched at her waist, and she added a chic white quilted handbag for a touch of elegance. Black heeled boots completed the ensemble, along with her loose waves and minimal makeup—a timeless yet effortless look.

When she re-emerged, Sherlock glanced up from the window where he had been standing, his gaze lingering for a fraction longer than usual. He didn’t say anything immediately, but something about the slight furrow in his brow suggested he was about to comment.

The morning air was brisk, carrying a crispness that tingled on the skin. As they walked, Catherine fell into step beside him, her earlier tension gradually melting away. Sherlock’s strides were purposeful yet unhurried, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his navy coat.

Catherine glanced sideways at Sherlock, her brow lifting as a teasing smile tugged at her lips. “You’re unusually quiet right now, Sherlock.”
He returned her look with his usual inscrutability, his tone clipped yet deliberate. “I was observing.”
“Observing what ?”
Sherlock hesitated briefly, his posture stiffening as though the act of voicing his thoughts was an affront to his sensibilities. “Your shoes.”
Catherine blinked, surprised. “My shoes?”
“They’re remarkably elegant,” he stated, as if delivering a conclusion in one of his cases.

She arched an eyebrow, a laugh escaping her. “Well, that’s oddly sweet of you. Thank you.”
“But wholly impractical for walking with the wound you haven’t recovered from weeks ago,” Sherlock added without missing a beat, his words striking with surgical precision. “By my estimation, you’ll be lamenting the choice within an hour.”

Her laughter grew, warm and unguarded. “Ah, there it is. I was almost flattered for a moment.”
“It’s not a critique,” Sherlock replied, his tone suggesting genuine confusion at her amusement. “It’s a fact. Lovely boots, but hardly engineered for efficiency.”

Catherine glanced at her footwear, then back at him, her eyes alight with playful defiance. “Well, these aren’t high heels so it won’t be that hurtful.”

Sherlock huffed softly, a sound that was suspiciously close to amusement. “An odd sort of logic, but alright.”

They continued walking, the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their feet filling the lulls in conversation. Catherine found herself studying him out of the corner of her eye, noticing the way his gaze darted sharply over their surroundings, processing everything and nothing in a moment.

“So, where to?” she asked finally, breaking the silence.
“Wherever the mood leads,” Sherlock said, his reply as vague as it was effortless.
“What about Regent’s Park?” she suggested.
He considered her for a beat, then nodded curtly. “Alright.”

The park’s tranquillity was a stark contrast to the sharp edges of Sherlock’s typical haunts. Catherine’s steps slowed as they passed a cluster of blooming flowers, their scent hanging lightly in the air. She glanced at Sherlock, noting the subtle flicker of his eyes as they scanned the area.

“You’re not secretly working on a case, are you?” she said. “You’ve been watching that jogger like he has just pinched your wallet.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “No case. Just a habit.”
“And?”
“He runs this path regularly,” he said, his tone betraying his delight in deduction. “Same pace, likely the same playlist. The pattern suggests routine, not spontaneity.”

Catherine shook her head with a soft laugh. “You’re absolutely exasperating, you know that?”
“Exasperating,” Sherlock mused, “is entirely subjective.”

As they approached a bench overlooking a still pond, Sherlock gestured subtly toward a couple seated nearby, their conversation punctuated by animated gestures and bursts of laughter. “Do you want to try to deduce them,” he said, his voice lower now, yet sharp with command.

Catherine glanced at him, one brow arched in amused scepticism. “Their story? Isn’t this your speciality?”

He tilted his head, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. “A chance to train you,” he said, his tone clipped but laced with challenge.

She leaned slightly against the bench, letting her gaze linger on the pair. The woman’s excitement was palpable, her hands gesticulating with energy, while the man leaned back, nodding with a relaxed smile. “They’re comfortable with each other,” she began, her tone measured and observational. “Been together a while, I’d guess. She’s showing him something—photos or a plan? He’s humouring her, but it’s genuine. He’s invested.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a faint line, a flicker of something—approval, perhaps—darting across his face. “Not entirely inaccurate,” he said, his words precise, as though issuing a clinical report.

“Not entirely?” Catherine echoed, her voice mock-indignant. “Go on, admit it—I’m brilliant.”

For a moment, something close to amusement touched his expression. “Yes, what a brilliant,” he allowed, the word clipped yet oddly approving.

Their shared laughter lingered, lightening the crisp morning air. Just then, a blur of movement drew Catherine’s attention—a squirrel darted forward, nosing through the fallen leaves in search of food.

“Oh, look at you,” she murmured, crouching gracefully, the hem of her coat brushing against the vibrant carpet of autumn leaves. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a small pouch, producing a handful of nuts. “Here you go, little one.”

Sherlock remained standing, his silhouette unmoving, hands deep in his pockets. “You carry nuts with you?” he asked, his tone equal parts curious and incredulous.

She glanced up at him, the corner of her mouth lifting in a playful grin. “You’d be surprised how useful it is. Besides,” she added, lowering her voice as the squirrel crept closer, “who could resist a furry little friend?”

The squirrel, tentative but intrigued, edged forward, its tiny paws brushing against her fingers as it took the offering. For a moment, the scene stood still, the quiet simplicity stark against the undercurrent of their unpredictable lives.

Sherlock observed her, his head tilting slightly. “You’re quite… nuts, Catherine.” She straightened, brushing off her hands, her laughter light and airy. “And here I thought I was boringly predictable.”
Sherlock tilted his head, a rare flicker of amusement crossing his face as the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “Absolutely not… for now.”

Catherine’s eyes shifted to the small squirrel scurrying nearby, its tiny paws busy stuffing nuts into its mouth. She couldn’t help but smile at the squirrel. The squirrel froze for a moment, its beady eyes meeting hers, before darting off into the bushes with its cheeks hilariously full.

“Well,” Catherine said, a chuckle escaping as she slipped her hands into her coat pockets. The cold air turned her breath into faint wisps, lingering momentarily before dissolving into the crisp autumn air. “At least that squirrel won’t go hungry this winter.”

Sherlock’s sharp gaze followed the squirrel, his expression betraying the faintest flicker of amusement. “Efficient creatures, squirrels,” he remarked, his voice clipped but thoughtful. “Industrious and adaptable, yet utterly chaotic in execution.”

Catherine turned to him, her head tilted as if studying him through a new lens. Her smile widened. “You do realise you just described yourself, don’t you?”

He paused, a brow arching as he considered her observation. “A crude approximation, perhaps,” he allowed, his tone laced with wry detachment. “Though I can assure you I have no inclination towards hoarding nuts.”

She laughed, the sound light and unrestrained. “Alright,” she quipped, nudging his arm as they resumed their walk. “Metaphorical nuts, maybe.”
Sherlock glanced at her, the barest smirk ghosting across his features. Their footsteps crunched against the gravel path, the sound interwoven with the rustling of leaves caught in the autumn breeze. For all his usual aloofness, Catherine noted how the edges of his persona seemed softened in moments like this. And though Sherlock would never admit it outright, she couldn’t help but feel that their shared laughter lingered in the air longer than he might prefer.

Chapter Text

After a fortnight, Catherine stood at her window, watching the golden autumn leaves drift down onto the street. A fresh start, she thought to herself, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself. It was time to carve out a life of her own in London.

She turned away from the view and reached for her laptop. “Time to find a job,” she murmured. Catherine sat at her desk, the sunlight streaming through the glass painted patterns across her auburn hair, but the beauty of the morning did little to lift her spirits. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating before typing out yet another application.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. “This shouldn’t be so difficult,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ten years of law, two degrees, countless sleepless nights, and I’m overqualified for everything except filing paperwork, ugh.”

The faint rustling of leaves outside brought her gaze to the street below. Children dashed past, their laughter mingling with the faint strains of a street performer’s melody. Catherine couldn’t help but smile faintly, if only for a moment.

An hour later, relentless ping of rejection emails cut through the quiet, each “we regret to inform you” like a tiny dagger. The stack of disappointments now towered over her fragile morning optimism, casting a long shadow over her thoughts. Frustration bubbled beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

With a sharp exhale, Catherine snapped her laptop shut and put it in her new tote bag, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. She shrugged off her cardigan and reached for her classic double-breasted coat, determined to escape her flat for a while. She headed to 221B Baker Street.

When she reached the apartment, the door swung open just as she raised her hand to knock. Standing in the doorway was John, a familiar face lit with a warm smile, alongside a young woman Catherine hadn’t seen before.

“Catherine! Perfect timing,” John began, gesturing to the woman beside him. “This is Jeanette, my girlfriend. Jeanette, meet Catherine—my landlady daughter.”

Jeanette extended her hand with a confidence that immediately struck Catherine. “Lovely to meet you, Catherine,” she said with a poised yet friendly tone. Catherine blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but quickly recovered. “Oh—nice to meet you too, Jeanette,” she replied, her voice polite but edged with curiosity.

John glanced at his watch, his expression shifting. “Right, we’re running late,” he muttered before turning to Jeanette. “Come on, love, we’ve got to go.” Then, with a hurried smile towards Catherine, he added, “Sorry to barge in like this.”

Catherine gave a small nod, watching as the pair disappeared down the street. Still processing the encounter, she stepped into the apartment and curry odor came from the kitchen. She found Mrs Hudson in the kitchen, cooking chicken tikka masala, humming a cheerful tune.

“There’s my sweetheart!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed, her face lighting up as she enveloped Catherine in a warm hug. “Oh, it’s always so lovely to see you, Cath.”

“You too, Mum,” Catherine replied, her tone affectionate but distracted. She hesitated before blurting out, “Mum... I didn’t know John had a girlfriend. I always thought he and Sherlock were, well... you know...” She trailed off awkwardly, gesturing vaguely with her hands.

Mrs Hudson turned to her with a knowing smile, her eyes gleaming with that familiar mix of warmth and cheek. “Oh, Catherine, love. You’re just like me—we always think there’s something going on with those two, don’t we?” She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “But no, John’s quite the charmer when he’s not busy playing nanny to Sherlock.” Catherine chuckled, relaxing a little. “I suppose I can see that. He does seem the dependable type. But still, it’s kind of hard to imagine him with anyone who isn’t... well, Sherlock.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice as though sharing some grand secret. “Maybe he is attracted to both genders? He popped in just now to borrow a better tie for their date, can you believe that? Of course, I couldn’t let him go looking anything less than perfect, so I gave him one of your father’s old ties.”

As Catherine and her mother chatted, the reason for her appeared here back into her mind. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, a knock at the door interrupted her.

“Can you help me check who’s that, love?” Mrs Hudson said, her voice bright and breezy.
Catherine nodded, opening the door. Even without looking up, the distinctive fashion sense of the tall figure on the other side gave the visitor away.
“Hi, Sherlock,” she greeted, holding the door open. “Why are you here ?” Sherlock stepped inside, his coat swirling dramatically behind him, his expression a blend of aloofness and impatience. “Starvation,” he replied succinctly, as though it were a perfectly normal greeting.

“Starvation?” Catherine raised a brow, shutting the door behind him. “You’re Sherlock Holmes—the man who could probably figure out who’s the criminal by their gestures, and you’re here because you can’t feed yourself?”

He ignored her sarcasm, striding toward the kitchen as though he owned the place.
“Oh, Sherlock, you should’ve called ahead! I’d have made something proper for you.” Mrs Hudson said.

“A simple meal will do, Mrs Hudson,”
“Honestly, one of these days I’ll stop feeding you, Sherlock Holmes!”
“No, it won’t, Mrs Hudson,”

Catherine’s arms crossed as she leaned against the counter, watching as he rifled through the cupboards. “While you’re here, I might as well make an announcement,” she said, her tone sounding defeated.

Sherlock barely glanced her way, his attention seemingly fixed on the contents—or lack thereof—in the biscuit tin. “How thrilling.”

“I’ve officially given up on finding a job,” Catherine declared, throwing her hands up in mock despair.

Mrs Hudson gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh, no, love! But you’re so bright—I’m sure someone—”

“Cleverness isn’t what London employers want,” Catherine interrupted with a wry smile. “They’re more into people who work well under pressure.”

Sherlock snapped the biscuit tin shut and turned to her with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps they detected your… special.”

Catherine shot him a deadpan look. “Coming from you, that sounds weird.” Mrs Hudson interjected, patting Catherine’s arm reassuringly. “You’ll find something, dear. These things take time.”

“Time,” Catherine muttered under her breath. Sherlock, now holding a cup of tea that Mrs Hudson had set out for him, fixed her with a scrutinising gaze. “Or maybe a miracle.”

Catherine rolled her eyes skyward. “Thank you, Sherlock. Your motivational speeches are truly heart-warming. I feel so inspired.”

Sherlock, lounging comfortably with his tea, responded with a deadpan expression. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” “Neither does humility suit you,” she quipped back, a sly grin creeping onto her face.

Before Sherlock could formulate a retort, Mrs Hudson clapped her hands. “That’s enough, you two! Honestly, it’s like watching children argue over who gets the bigger piece of cake. If you’ve got this much energy, you can both help me with lunch.”

Sherlock paused mid-sip, lowering the cup slowly. His brow furrowed slightly, as though Mrs Hudson had just asked him to recite Shakespeare backwards. He turned to Catherine with a blank, querying look that silently asked: What does ‘helping with lunch’ even mean?

Catherine bit her lip to stifle a laugh. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, her voice full of mock gravity. “Don’t tell me—you’ve unravelled the deepest conspiracies of the British government, yet a kitchen confounds you?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his tone clipped. “Cooking is an egregiously inefficient use of mental faculties.”

Catherine feigned shock, placing a hand dramatically over her chest. “Ah, there it is—the great Sherlock Holmes’ fatal flaw. Do you even know where the knives are, or shall we watch you deduce their location with your unparalleled intellect?”

Mrs Hudson chuckled, already laying out ingredients with practised ease. “Now, now, Catherine. Be fair. Sherlock’s a marvel, but even he can’t be good at everything. Not everyone’s meant for the kitchen.”

Sherlock straightened, setting his teacup down with a trace of irritation. “I assure you, Mrs Hudson, I am perfectly capable of preparing food. Chopping vegetables hardly constitutes an intellectual challenge.”

“Wonderful!” Catherine exclaimed, her grin downright mischievous. She handed him a knife, gesturing to the onions on the counter. “The stage is yours, genius. Let’s see some of that brilliance in action.”

Sherlock regarded the knife with the kind of scrutiny one might reserve for a forensic sample. His gaze shifted to the onions, a flicker of disdain crossing his face as if the vegetables themselves were beneath him.

“This,” Catherine said, barely holding back her laughter, “will be the highlight of my day.” Sherlock picked up the knife, sighing as though being asked to solve a crossword puzzle designed for children. “Highlight of your day?” he muttered, slicing into the onion with surgical precision. “No wonder you’ve resigned yourself to unemployment.”

Catherine folded her arms, her expression unimpressed. “Oh, here we go. Analysing my life choices over a chopping board now, are we?”

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat, his voice clipped and matter-of-fact. “Why not? It’s infinitely more interesting than culinary drudgery. Besides, if I’m going to suffer through this, I might as well multitask.”

Mrs Hudson peeked over from the doorway, a delighted smile lighting up her face. “Oh, that’s brilliant, Sherlock! Catherine, you should listen to him. He’s terribly clever about these things.”

“Tactful, though?” Catherine shot back with a smirk. “Not exactly his strong suit.”
Sherlock ignored the jab entirely, setting the knife down as if the onion had offended him. “Let’s start with the basics. What kind of positions are you even applying for?”

“Legal ones, obviously,” Catherine replied, exasperated. “Paralegal, associate roles—the usual.”
“And your CV?”
“Impeccable,” she snapped, raising her chin defiantly.
Sherlock’s gaze turned sharp, the kind that dissected a person down to their core. “I’ll be the judge of that. Where is it?”

“What, now?” Catherine blinked, thrown off by his sudden demand. “Yes, now.” His tone left no room for negotiation. “Unless you prefer to continue wallowing in mediocrity?”

Catherine glared at him, though her lips twitched in reluctant amusement. “Fine. It’s on my laptop.”

“Put it right here, your laptop must be in your bag,” Sherlock was already clearing space on the counter as though preparing for an autopsy.

Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together, beaming. “Oh, isn’t this wonderful? A little teamwork—just like in old times. It’s like watching a detective drama and a comedy all rolled into one!” Catherine grabbed her laptop from her bag, muttering under her breath, “More like a circus act.”

Sherlock’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Call it what you want, Catherine. By the end of this, you’ll have a CV worth submitting—or at the very least, one that doesn’t waste everyone’s time.”

With a resigned sigh, Catherine set the laptop on the counter. “Let’s see what the great Sherlock Holmes can do outside of solving mysteries.”

Sherlock cracked his knuckles with the kind of theatricality that could only come from years of smug self-assurance. His fingers flew across the keyboard, his expression as intense as if piecing together a high-stakes case. Catherine leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with a blend of scepticism and curiosity.

“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “this should be interesting.”
Catherine glanced sideways at Mrs Hudson, who had busied herself slicing carrots, a small smile playing on her lips as though thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

“You know,” Catherine said, leaning against the counter, her tone laced with mock indignation, “if you’re going to ‘tear apart’ my CV, you could at least pretend to be impressed by how much I've put into my education.”

Sherlock’s fingers paused for the briefest moment, the faintest flicker of a reaction, before resuming their staccato rhythm on the keyboard. “Education, while important, is merely the scaffolding. Execution is what determines whether you’ve constructed a masterpiece or a mess.”
“Mess?” Catherine repeated, arching an eyebrow. You have to be the most insufferable person alive.”
“Not insufferable,” Sherlock corrected without a trace of humility, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Just accurate.”

Mrs Hudson chuckled softly, her warm voice breaking the tension. “Oh, don’t mind him, love. He told me once I’d never manage as a landlady if I kept forgetting to lock the front door. And yet, here we are!” She gestured to the bustling kitchen with a flourish.

Catherine smiled. “I guess he’s consistent.”

Sherlock suddenly leaned back, his gaze fixed on the laptop. “Your CV is... passable. But why, exactly, have you buried all your achievements halfway down? “I didn’t want to come across as arrogant,” Catherine muttered defensively.

“Arrogance and competence are not mutually exclusive,” Sherlock replied flatly. “You’re wasting their time, and yours of course.”
Mrs Hudson smiled as she wiped her hands. “He’s right, dear. You’re brilliant—don’t hide it.”

Catherine sighed. “Alright, genius. What do you suggest?”
Sherlock’s smirk widened as his fingers flew over the keyboard. “I’ll show you.” As he rearranged sections and edited with unnerving precision, Catherine crossing her arms, glanced at Mrs Hudson. “Lunch has officially turned into a CV makeover.”

Mrs Hudson grinned. “That’s Baker Street for you, dear. Always a little unexpected.” Catherine let out a sharp sigh, frustration lacing her words. “Even if it's perfect, my real problem remains unresolved.”

“And that is?” Sherlock asked, one eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly knowing way.

“I studied law in China,” Catherine began, her tone resigned. “Civil law. The UK operates on common law. The two systems couldn’t be more different. Here, it’s all about precedents. In China, it’s statutes. My qualifications don’t fit.”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened, his expression one of analytical intensity. “You’re telling me that a decade of rigorous training, multiple degrees, and practical experience is rendered meaningless by mere procedural differences?”

“Yes,” Catherine shot back, exasperated. “Without retraining, I’m unqualified. I’d have to complete a GDL or QLTS, and even then, finding a firm willing to take me on is far from certain.”

Mrs Hudson, who had been quietly peeling potatoes, looked up, her expression soft with concern.“That hardly seems fair, dear. With your background, they should be lining up for you.”

Catherine gave a short, bitter laugh. “You’d think so. But all they see is a foreign lawyer with no local credentials.”

Sherlock’s disdainful scoff sliced through the room. “Idiots.” He leaned forward, his voice edged with contempt. “The problem isn’t your ability; it’s their narrow-minded incompetence.”
Catherine smirked bitterly. “Let’s call it that.”
He turned back to his laptop, his fingers flying over the keys. “Conventional approaches won’t work. You need to make yourself indispensable—stand out in a way they can’t ignore.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Catherine crossed her arms, challenging him.

Sherlock’s lips twitched with a faint smile. “Leave that to me.” His attention snapped to the screen, and a sharp intake of breath signaled he’d found something. “Here,” he announced, spinning the laptop towards her. “Advised multinational clients on cross-border trade disputes, navigating complex legal frameworks between the UK and China.”

He tapped the screen with precision. “Why isn’t this at the forefront of your CV? You’re a bridge between two legal worlds—a unique asset. They’re just too blind to see it.”

Catherine frowned. “A bridge? That’s a touch melodramatic.”
“It’s fact,” Sherlock countered, his tone clipped. “Your expertise in two legal systems is your leverage. You don’t adapt to them—they adapt to you.”

Mrs Hudson chimed in, setting down her peeler. “Sherlock does have a way with words, Catherine. But he’s got a point. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Catherine sighed, her resistance wavering. “Fine. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Minutes later, he spun the laptop back around. Catherine blinked at the screen, now showcasing her cross-border work prominently. Sherlock had reframed her credentials, weaving her narrative into a solution no firm could ignore.

“Well?” he asked, expectant.
“It’s… good,” Catherine admitted, begrudgingly.
“Good?” Sherlock’s tone turned incredulous. “It’s a masterpiece.”

Mrs Hudson interjected with a soft smile, “He’s put in the effort, love. You should thank him.”

Sherlock waved off the comment, his focus already shifting to job listings. “No need for thanks. Just don’t ruin my work with unnecessary edits.” Catherine rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Thank you, Sherlock. Truly.”

He didn’t look up, but the faintest hint of a smirk betrayed his satisfaction. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s see if we can find a firm with the intelligence to deserve you.”

As Sherlock clicked through websites with machine-like focus, Catherine exchanged a glance with Mrs Hudson.
“Is it always like this?” she whispered.
Mrs Hudson chuckled. “Oh, you’ve no idea. This is him being helpful.”
Catherine shook her head, leaning back. “Well, here’s hoping he’s right. For all our sake.”

Sherlock scans the final version of the CV on the screen. His sharp eyes flickered with a blend of intrigue and approval. “Fascinating. I knew you were intelligent, but this…” He gestured at the laptop. “…is bordering on obnoxiously impressive.”Catherine arched an eyebrow, her tone laced with amusement. “Obnoxiously?”

“You studied law in Mandarin, navigated two entirely different legal systems, worked on international trade disputes, and even published research. All before turning thirty.” He paused, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Most people can barely master one language. Meanwhile, you’ve got a basic grasp of Cantonese and an intermediate level of French.”

Catherine shrugged, her expression casual despite the flicker of pride in her eyes. “I mean, I grew up here. Living near Chinatown, it’s hard not to pick up bits of Cantonese. And apparently, joining French club during high school does help a bit.”

“Of course,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head as though her achievements were simultaneously baffling and inevitable. “A legal polymath with linguistic flair. If this CV doesn’t land you a job, it’ll confirm what I’ve long suspected: most employers are hopelessly incompetent.”

Mrs Hudson bustled into the room, setting a steaming cup of tea beside Catherine. “I told you, Sherlock. She’s brilliant. Just like her mother.” Sherlock glanced at Mrs Hudson, then turned back to Catherine, his gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps brilliance runs in the family.” Caught off guard by the rare compliment, Catherine quickly recovered with a light laugh. “You’ve already flattered me enough. Don’t overdo it.”

“I don’t do flattery,” Sherlock countered coolly, shutting the laptop with a decisive click. “I deal in facts. And the fact is, you’re wasting time doubting yourself. With this CV and a modicum of strategy, they’ll queue up for you.”
“Now, can we move on? I believe we have lunch to prepare for.” “Right. Lunch, then the rest of my life.”

Chapter Text

A day after Sherlock helped Catherine edit her CV, she was thrilled to find her inbox flooded with job offers. Her heart swelled with excitement, and she couldn’t resist sharing the news with Sherlock. Picking up her phone, she quickly typed a message.

C: “Sherlock!!! I’ve received so many offers!”
S: “Good.”

His dry reply made her pause. Typical Sherlock, she thought, with a bemused shake of her head. But she was in too good a mood to be deterred.

C: “As a thank-you, dinner’s on me tonight. You can bring John along if you’d like! 221B Baker Street!”
S: “Alright.”

She stared at the screen, letting out a small laugh. His brevity was almost unnerving, as if every word he sent had to be justified by its necessity. Texting him always felt a little like talking to a robot. Still, she grinned, already planning the menu in her head.

That evening, Catherine prepared for dinner with a mix of excitement and apprehension. She wanted everything to be perfect—not just because she owed Sherlock, but also because she felt it was her chance to express her gratitude in a way words couldn’t quite capture.

The kitchen was alive with activity as Mrs Hudson assisted Catherine with the preparations.

“Did you learn all this Chinese cooking on your own?” Mrs Hudson asked, peering over the array of dishes with interest.
“No, it was WanQing who taught me all of this, Mum. Do you remember her? My senior partner at the Beijing International Arbitration Centre.”
“Oh, her! Yes, I remember. You said you two became good friends, didn’t you?” Mrs Hudson’s eyes lit up with recognition.
Catherine nodded, sprinkling some sesame seeds over a steaming dish. “That’s right. But she’s still busy with her studies at the moment so yeah.”

“That is so sad to hear. Well, I must say though, you’re going to spoil those two with this spread,” Mrs Hudson remarked approvingly, folding her arms. Catherine smiled. “Sherlock’s helped me more than I could’ve imagined. The least I can do is ensure he eats something other than tea and biscuits for once.”

When the table was finally set and the rich aroma of roasted herbs filled the air, sounds of knocking came from the door. Catherine wiped her hands on a towel, her heart skipping unexpectedly as she hurried to answer it.

Sherlock swept in first, his coat swirling dramatically as always. John followed, offering Catherine a warm smile as he shrugged off his jacket. “Smells amazing,” John remarked, hanging his coat by the door. “If this is how you repay people, I might start helping you out more often.”

“Well, then perhaps I shouldn’t accept it,” Catherine teased, leading them towards the dining room. As they settled at the table, the atmosphere became surprisingly lively. John regaled them with amusing anecdotes from their cases, leaving Catherine in fits of laughter, while Sherlock sat there, thinking of something while enjoying the meal.

“So,” Sherlock began abruptly in the middle of the meal, “which company have you chosen? It’s vital you make the right decision. You’d be utterly wasted in most places.”

Catherine raised a brow, her fork pausing mid-air. “You know, most people wouldn’t discuss work over dinner.”
“Most people,” Sherlock retorted, not looking up from his plate, “are dull.”

John sighed, setting down his wine glass. “Don’t mind him. He’s just upset that he can't do his deductions while eating.” “Not true,” Sherlock countered, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Multitasking is a skill.”

Mrs Hudson popped her head into the room, her face glowing with maternal pride. “Oh, it’s lovely to see the three of you like this. Almost like a family, isn’t it?”

Catherine smiled warmly. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel out of place or overwhelmed—just content, surrounded by people who, in their own eccentric ways, cared.

After dinner, as John and Sherlock prepared to leave, Catherine lingered at the door with Sherlock. “Thank you again,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with sincerity.

Sherlock tilted his head, studying her with that piercing gaze of his. “No need to thank me twice. But…” He hesitated briefly, his voice softening, “you’ve done well. Keep proving it to yourself.”

Her smile widened, and for once, she didn’t try to deflect. “I will.” With a swirl of his coat, Sherlock turned and disappeared into the night. Catherine stood at the doorway, leaning against the frame, a strange but welcome sense of belonging settling over her.

As soon Catherine was done with washing the dishes and some chores, she gave her mum a goodbye kiss and stepped out onto the quiet London streets, the crisp night air brushing against her skin. The city was alive with its own rhythm, the soft hum of distant cars, the occasional chatter of late-night wanderers, and the golden glow of street lamps illuminating cobbled pavements.

As she strolled along, her thoughts drifted back to her inbox, overflowing with job offers. Each email was a reminder of her potential, but also a decision waiting to be made. She pulled her coat tighter around her, taking in the sight of the Thames glistening under the moonlight.

Stopping by a random street lamp, she leaned against it and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through the emails, rereading each offer with a critical eye. One stood out—a prestigious firm specialising in international arbitration and complex litigation.

She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. “This is it,” she whispered to herself, tapping the screen to compose her acceptance email. Her fingers hovered for a moment before she hit send, sealing her decision.

The first day of November, also the first day of Catherine working. Morning after a few days, sunlight poured through the curtains, painting Catherine’s apartment in soft hues of gold. She stretched, her heart still light from the decision she’d made the night before.

A knock, as usual coming from the door, Mr Frasco thick moustache twitched as he hummed a tune, holding a steaming plate of scrambled eggs and toast. As the door slowly opened, he greeted her, gesturing grandly. “Good morning, Cath. A big day for you, eh? First day at the fancy law firm!”

“Good morning, Mr Frasco.” Catherine smiled. “Thank you for this. You didn’t have to.”
“Nonsense! It’s my duty to keep you fed. You’ll need energy for the day.” He winked, making her laugh.

After breakfast, Catherine returned to her room to get ready. She carefully selected her outfit: a tailored black blazer paired with a navy blouse, slim black trousers, and her favourite pair of heeled ankle boots. Adjusting her pearl earrings, she gave herself a final look in the mirror. After an outfit check, she stepped outside, hailed a cab, and settled into the backseat. The city bustled around her, a constant stream of life and energy. She pulled out her phone and texted Mrs Hudson.

C: “Mum, guess what? I’m officially starting at Sheiza Solicitors today!”
Mrs H: “Oh, darling! I’m so proud of you! Make sure you show them just how brilliant you are. ”
C: “Always, Mum. I’ll text you tonight! xoxo”

She smiled at the reply, leaning back to watch the familiar London streets pass by. Excitement buzzed under her skin, mingling with the faintest hint of nerves. Arriving at the sleek Sheiza Solicitors building, Catherine adjusted her coat and took a deep breath. As she stepped through the revolving doors, her heart raced, but her resolve was steady.

The reception area of Sheiza Solicitors was everything Catherine had imagined—modern, sleek, and buzzing with quiet efficiency. The air carried a faint scent of polished wood and fresh flowers, blending seamlessly with the hum of voices and the occasional ding of the elevator.

“Miss Hudson?” A young woman with almond skin type and a warm smile approached her, her long curly hair neatly styled and her tailored suit exuding effortless professionalism. “Welcome to Sheiza Solicitors. I’m Lenora Charlotte, your onboarding guide for today.”

“Thank you,” Catherine replied, offering a handshake. She appreciated Lenora’s approachable energy, which made the transition into her first day a little less daunting.

As Lenora guided her through the corridors, pointing out key areas like the conference rooms, the pantry, and the expansive library, Catherine absorbed everything with a mix of curiosity and determination. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor, a rhythmic reminder of her steady resolve.

“This is your office,” Lenora said, stopping in front of a glass-paneled door. The room was compact but well-lit, with a stunning view of the city. Catherine couldn’t help but smile at the thoughtful setup—sleek desktops, neatly arranged files, and a small vase of fresh lilies sitting on the desk.

“Settle in, take your time,” Lenora continued, leaning against the doorframe. “But don’t forget the team meeting at nine. It’ll be a good chance to meet everyone.”
“I won’t. Thanks, Lenora,” Catherine said sincerely.

“Anytime. Oh, and one more thing—lunch is on me today. You’ll love the café downstairs.” With a wink, Lenora turned on her heel, leaving Catherine to get acquainted with her space. By the time the meeting rolled around, Catherine felt ready. She walked into the spacious conference room, where a large oval table was surrounded by sharply dressed professionals. She introduced herself confidently, her voice steady despite the curious gazes of her new colleagues.

“Everyone, this is Catherine Hudson,” Lenora announced, standing at her side. “She’s joining as a legal consultant.”

Polite smiles and nods followed, but one figure in particular caught Catherine’s attention. Sitting near the centre of the table, he had an aura of quiet confidence. His sharp grey suit was impeccably tailored, and his dark eyes seemed to assess her with quiet curiosity.

The meeting began with discussions about an ongoing case, and Catherine listened intently, occasionally offering insights that drew approving nods from the team. Ian’s gaze, however, seemed particularly focused on her, his expression unreadable yet attentive.

When the meeting concluded, Ian approached her as the others filed out. “Catherine Hudson, isn’t it?” he said, extending a hand. His voice carried a faint Welsh lilt, smooth and deliberate.

“That’s right,” she replied, shaking his hand firmly.
“Ian Anwir. Looks like we’ll be working together on a few cases in the future.” His smile was polite but measured, his eyes scanning her face as though searching for something. “Impressive insights back there. Not everyone speaks up on their first day.”

“Thank you,” Catherine said, offering a faint smile. “I’m just eager to get started.”
“Good attitude,” Ian said. “If you need anything—or someone to show you the ropes—just let me know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, her tone matching his professional politeness.

As Ian walked away, Catherine caught Lenora’s knowing smirk from across the room. “He doesn’t usually talk to people that quickly,” Lenora whispered when they crossed paths in the hallway.

Catherine laughed lightly, brushing off the comment. “Good to know.” Still, she couldn’t shake the subtle tension lingering from her interaction with Ian. There was something about him—something elusive and intriguing. But for now, she focused on settling into her role, grateful to have Lenora as a guide and potential friend in this new chapter of her life.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of introductions and paperwork. Catherine familiarised herself with the case files assigned to her, her meticulous nature making quick work of understanding the intricacies. Around noon, her stomach growled softly, reminding her of the time.

Lenora appeared at her door just then, as if on cue. “Ready for lunch?” she asked, leaning casually against the doorframe with her ever-present warm smile. “Definitely,” Catherine replied, standing and grabbing her bag.

The café downstairs was bustling with energy, filled with a mix of professionals from various offices in the building. Lenora led Catherine to a quiet corner table and ordered their food. Over plates of fresh sandwiches and aromatic coffee, their conversation turned from work to personal life.

“So, how are you finding the place so far?” Lenora asked, taking a sip of her latte.
“It’s been good,” Catherine replied with a genuine smile. “Everyone seems friendly enough, and the cases are challenging, which I like.”
“And Ian?” Lenora’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she said his name. “What’s your first impression of him?”

Catherine raised a brow, caught off guard by the question. “He seems... professional,” she said, her tone neutral but honest.
“Professional,” Lenora repeated, her grin widening. “That’s one way to put it. Let me guess—polite but impossible to read?”

“Something like that,” Catherine admitted, laughing. “Why do you ask?” “Oh, no reason,” Lenora said, though her grin suggested otherwise. “It’s just that he doesn’t usually make an effort with new people. You must’ve caught his eye.”

Catherine shook her head, brushing off the comment. “I think he’s just doing his job.”
“Maybe,” Lenora replied with a shrug, clearly unconvinced. “But if you ever need a second opinion on him, you know where to find me,” she giggled.

After lunch, Catherine returned to her desk, feeling more at ease with Lenora’s easy camaraderie. However, her workload quickly demanded her full attention, and she was soon immersed in legal research. By mid-afternoon, she needed to clarify some details about a joint case. Reluctantly, she realised she’d have to seek out Ian.

She found him in one of the smaller conference rooms, reviewing documents with his usual sharp focus. Catherine knocked lightly on the glass door before stepping inside.
“Do you have a moment?” she asked, holding up the file in her hand.

Ian looked up, his expression softening slightly as he gestured for her to sit. “Of course. What’s the issue?” As Catherine explained her query, Ian listened intently, occasionally asking probing questions that demonstrated his deep understanding of the case. Their exchange was professional, but she couldn’t ignore the way his dark eyes lingered on her a moment longer than necessary.

When their discussion ended, Catherine stood to leave, but just as she reached the door, Lenora appeared. She took one look at the two of them and raised a brow, her smirk unmistakable.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Lenora said breezily, stepping aside to let Catherine through. But as Catherine passed her, Lenora leaned in and whispered, “Told you he’s interested.”

Catherine shot her a warning glance, her cheeks warming. “It’s work, Lenora.”
“Sure it is,” Lenora teased, winking. “But you have to admit, you two make quite the team.”

Ignoring her friend’s playful banter, Catherine returned to her desk, determined to focus on her work. But Lenora’s words lingered in her mind, unbidden. And as much as she tried to brush it off, a small part of her couldn’t help but wonder if there was some truth to it.

As the day stretched into evening, Catherine decided to finish up her research notes before heading home. The office was quieter now, with only a few desks still occupied. She glanced over at Lenora, who was scrolling through her emails, an expression of mild frustration on her face.
“Long day?” Catherine asked, leaning against Lenora’s desk.
“You have no idea,” Lenora replied, letting out a dramatic sigh. “I love my job, but these clients think I’m some sort of miracle worker. ‘Oh, Lenora, can we get this sorted by tomorrow morning?’ Like I don’t have a life.”

Catherine laughed, shaking her head. “Well, if anyone could pull off miracles, it’s you.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, babe,” Lenora teased, sitting back in her chair. “So, any big plans tonight, or are you diving into more work like a proper overachiever?”

“Just heading home,” Catherine replied. “Might cook something, maybe call my mum. Nothing exciting.”
“Boring!” Lenora declared with mock dismay. “You need to let loose once in a while. Maybe we can grab drinks after work sometime—my treat.”

“Deal,” Catherine said, smiling. “But only if you promise not to interrogate me about Ian.”
Lenora gasped, feigning innocence. “Me? Interrogate? Never! I’m just saying, you two have that unspoken ‘we’re both secretly brilliant’ vibe. It’s fun to watch.”
Catherine giggled after hearing Lenora’s words “I’m not a genius. By the way, we should exchange our numbers.”

The cool London air greeted Catherine as she stepped outside, flagging down a cab. She slid into the backseat, leaning her head against the window as the familiar cityscape rolled by. The streets were alive with the hum of traffic, illuminated by the glow of streetlights and shop signs. The city’s vibrant energy was a comforting contrast to the quiet anticipation she’d felt that morning.

As the cab turned onto a quieter road, Catherine pulled out her phone, hesitating for a moment before opening her messages.

C: “First day is fine, I met some friends. There’s this one girl who’s really funny.”
She hit send and stared at the screen, waiting for the telltale dots of her mother’s reply.
Mrs H: “Good to know, sweetheart. Did you eat? You always forget when you’re busy.”
Catherine smiled, a wave of nostalgia washing over her.

C: “I grabbed a sandwich at lunch. Lenora—my new friend—says she’ll drag me out for dinner next time. I promise I won’t starve, Mum.”
Mrs H: “You’d better not! And don’t let Sherlock rope you into any of his ridiculous adventures. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
C: “I haven’t even heard from him today. Maybe he’s actually busy for once.”
Mrs H: “That man’s version of busy is probably setting fire to the kitchen again. Keep an eye on him, love. And John too.”
C: “You’re acting like I’m their babysitter. I will text you tomorrow, Mum. Love you, xoxo.”
Mrs H: “Love you too, darling. ”

As the cab pulled up in front of her building, Catherine paid the cabbie and stepped out, her thoughts drifting to Sherlock and John. Her mother wasn’t wrong—they did have a knack for chaos. Inside her flat, she set her bag down and kicked off her shoes. She debated calling Sherlock but decided against it. If he needed her, he’d find a way to make his presence known—he always did. Instead, she shot off a quick text.

C: “Still alive after my first day. Managed not to burn the office down. How’s crime-solving?”

It didn’t take long for her phone to buzz.

S: “No case. Really dull.”
C: “Haha, I’ll find you and John some cases if I can.”
S: “👍”

Catherine looked at the last message, let out a soft chuckle. Catherine placed her phone on the counter, her chest warm with a mixture of amusement and gratitude. No matter how chaotic her life might get, it was comforting to know her mum—and her odd little circle of friends—always had her back.

Chapter Text

The scent of coffee wafted through the flat as Catherine stood by the window, cradling a steaming mug in her hands. The city stretched out before her, its streets alive with the quiet rhythm of early morning. A sharp knock on the door broke the morning stillness, she looked up from her steaming cup of herbal tea, her brow furrowing. A glance at the clock told her it was far too early for unannounced visitors—or at least, it should be.

She shuffled to the door and opened it to find Sherlock standing there. His hair was slightly mussed, his coat dusted with the faint dampness of London’s persistent drizzle.

“Sherlock?” Catherine said, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s barely eight. What are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you too,” Sherlock replied briskly, brushing past her into the flat. “I need your assistance, ”

Catherine shut the door with a sigh. “Assistance? Or another one of your harebrained schemes disguised as a favour?” She folded her arms. “Could this not have waited? And where’s John? Isn’t he usually your willing sidekick?”
“John is otherwise engaged,” Sherlock said, his gaze darting about her flat, absorbing every detail with unnerving precision. “And this isn’t a scheme—it’s a case. It concerns your new workplace, so you’re uniquely qualified.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “My workplace? I’ve been there for a few days. How could I possibly be involved in one of your cases already?”
“Yes, well,” he said with a dismissive wave, “your firm is involved, not you personally. Sheiza Solicitors has a client connected to a missing document—one that someone is very eager to recover. I need access, and you’re conveniently placed.”
Catherine pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sherlock, you can’t seriously expect me to waltz into work and hand over confidential files to a man who turns up unannounced at my flat.”

Sherlock tilted his head, studying her. “Of course not. But I trust your resourcefulness.”
She rubbed her forehead, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” he said with a faint smile.

After that, Catherine arrived at Sheiza Solicitors with Sherlock trailing a discreet distance behind her. The office buzzed with activity, the air humming with the click of keyboards and the murmur of voices.
“Cath, you brought a guest!” Lenora’s voice cut through the din as she approached, her smile wide and mischievous. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a secret admirer already.”
Catherine groaned. “He’s not a guest, and he’s certainly not an admirer. This is Sherlock Holmes. He’s consulting on a case.”
Lenora’s grin widened as she gave Sherlock a once-over. “Sherlock Holmes? The famous consulting detective. Well, nice to meet you! ”

Sherlock, ignoring Lenora entirely, let his piercing gaze sweep across the room. “This is hardly the time for irrelevant commentary,” he said, his tone clipped.
Lenora blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Wow, charming.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “Ignore him. He’s like this with everyone.”

The moment Ian Anwir appeared at the far end of the hall, Lenora leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “So, which one’s more your type? The tall and brooding detective or the charming solicitor?”

Catherine felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Lenora, I swear...”
But before she could finish, Sherlock spoke up. “Miss Charlotte, is it?” He didn’t even look at her as he addressed her, his focus locked on a file being passed between colleagues. “Fascinating sense of humour.”

“Oh, thank you,” Lenora replied, undeterred. “We’ll see if you feel the same after working with Cath.”
Catherine sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she led Sherlock towards the meeting rooms. Whatever the case was, it was already shaping up to be an eventful day.

As if on cue, Ian Anwir strolled over, his easy confidence and sharp suit radiating charm. “Morning, Catherine. Morning, Lenora,” he said, his voice warm. His gaze shifted to the door. “Your...friend?”
Catherine managed a polite smile. “That’s Sherlock. He’s helping me with something.”
Ian raised an eyebrow, his curiosity barely concealed. “Something? Should I be worried about the firm’s reputation already?”

Before Catherine could reply, Lenora chimed in, leaning on the desk. “Don’t worry, Ian. Cath’s just collecting eccentric geniuses now. You might have competition.”

“Competition?” Ian chuckled, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “I doubt anyone could keep up with Catherine’s wit. But I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”
Catherine felt her cheeks flush. “Lenora, I swear I’ll—”

“Oh, hush,” Lenora said, winking. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. "
Sherlock, standing slightly apart, studied the solicitor with the same scrutiny he’d apply to a crime scene. When Ian left, Sherlock leaned closer to Catherine, his voice low and dry. “Smiling excessively. Unnecessary flattery. A sure sign he’s compensating for something.”

Catherine groaned. “He’s being polite. Normal people do that.”
“Polite? No. More like calculated,” Sherlock countered, his gaze flicking to where Ian had gone. “A charming facade, hiding a less-than-charming reality. Mark my words.”

Lenora leaned in, grinning. “You’re totally jealous.”
“Jealousy is a sentiment I neither experience nor feel,” he replied, his tone cold enough to freeze over any further jesting. He turned back to Catherine, who was busy pretending to organise her desk to avoid the awkwardness.

As the morning dragged on, Sherlock made himself comfortable, or as comfortable as one could be while lurking in someone else’s workspace. He perched himself on the edge of Catherine’s desk, his long legs crossed, and tapped his fingers rhythmically against the polished wood.

Catherine, typing away on her computer, finally broke the silence. “What’s your plan, Sherlock? You can’t just sit here glaring at everyone until something happens.”
“Wait for lunch,” he replied matter-of-factly, as if the simplicity of his strategy should have been obvious. “Then we’ll sneak into the records room.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you plan to do that? There are cameras, you know.”
Sherlock smirked faintly. “Cameras are easy to avoid when no one is looking. Lunch breaks are marvellous distractions.”

When lunchtime rolled around, Lenora appeared, her purse slung over her shoulder. “Cath, we’re heading to that new restaurant down the street. Fancy joining us?”

Before Catherine could respond, Sherlock cut in smoothly. “She’ll be staying here.” Catherine shot him a glare. “I can answer for myself, thank you.” She turned back to Lenora. “I’ll have to pass this time. Busy day.”

Lenora gave a knowing look, her gaze flitting between the two. “Right. Well, try not to work too hard,” she said with a wink, before leaving with the others.

Once the office was mostly empty, Catherine grabbed a stack of non-sensitive files from the filing cabinet, carefully chosen based on Sherlock’s earlier hints. She slipped out to meet him in the alley behind the building, where he was waiting, his coat pulled tight against the drizzle.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the papers into his hands. “They’re just client lists and invoices—nothing confidential.”
“Perfect,” Sherlock murmured, rifling through the pages with practised speed. His eyes scanned each sheet with an intensity that made Catherine shiver. “Patterns, names, connections,” he muttered under his breath.

“What are you looking for exactly?” she asked, glancing nervously over her shoulder, as if the walls themselves could sprout ears.
“Everything,” he replied cryptically, his fingers pausing briefly over a name before moving on. “And perhaps insight into your friend Ian.”

Catherine crossed her arms. “Ian again? He’s just another solicitor, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked up, his expression unreadable but laced with that familiar edge of suspicion. “Is he?”
She groaned, exasperated. “Don’t start, Sherlock. Not everyone you meet is hiding some dark secret.”
“Not everyone,” he agreed, his lips quivering into a sly smile. “But most people.”
Catherine sighed, pulling her coat tighter.

As soon as Sherlock found the documents he needed, he flipped through them with a sharp, practised precision, his intense gaze skimming over the pages as though the words might vanish if he didn’t absorb them fast enough. Catherine stood a few steps away, arms crossed, her expression caught between curiosity and exasperation.

Sherlock straightened abruptly, turning back the documents. “That should do for now,” he declared, his tone clipped. Without so much as a thank-you, he turned on his heel and strode towards the alley’s exit, the hem of his coat flaring with his hurried steps.

Catherine let out a long sigh, shaking her head. “You’re welcome,” she muttered under her breath, though she doubted Sherlock was listening. As the echo of his footsteps faded into the drizzle, she turned to follow, but a figure at the far end of the alley stopped her short. Ian Anwir stood there, his sharp suit untouched by the damp, his hands casually tucked into his coat pockets. His gaze met hers, steady and thoughtful, as if he’d been observing the entire exchange.

Catherine’s heart sank. “Ian,” she said, stepping forward cautiously. “I—” He held up a hand, cutting her off with a faint, almost enigmatic smile. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice low and calm. “I won’t say anything to anyone.”

She blinked, momentarily taken aback. “You won’t?”
He shook his head, his smile widening slightly. “We all have our secrets, Catherine. I figure you’ve got your reasons.” His tone was measured, almost teasing, but there was a warmth to it that made her stomach flutter.

Catherine hesitated, studying him carefully. His expression gave nothing away—not suspicion, not judgement—only a quiet understanding that caught her off guard. “Thank you,” she said softly, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks.

Ian shrugged lightly. “Just don’t make it a habit of sneaking around in alleys with strange men, yeah?” His smile turned playful, and she couldn’t help but laugh despite herself.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” she replied, her voice tinged with both amusement and gratitude. Catherine adjusted her coat as the chill breeze picked up. Ian lingered where he stood, hands in his pockets, watching her with that same knowing look.

“Hungry?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Her initial instinct was to decline—after all, she didn’t want to invite more teasing from Lenora. But the idea of eating alone at her desk didn’t exactly sound appealing, either. Besides, there was something intriguing about Ian Anwir, something that made her curious. “Alright,” she said with a shrug, trying to keep her tone casual. “Why not?”

They walked side by side, heading towards the café around the corner. The conversation flowed easily, with Ian making light remarks about the unpredictable London weather and Catherine adding her own quips about the quirks of working in their field.

As they neared the café, Catherine heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Well, well, what do we have here?”
She turned to see Lenora standing on the pavement, arms crossed and a wicked grin plastered across her face. A couple of their colleagues hovered nearby, clearly amused.

“A lunch date, Catherine?” Lenora teased, waggling her eyebrows.
Catherine felt her cheeks flush as she stumbled over her words. “It’s not— It’s just lunch.”
“With Ian Anwir no less,” Lenora continued, clearly enjoying herself. “I didn’t know you two were so close.”
Ian, to his credit, didn’t look fazed. “Careful, Lenora,” he said smoothly, his voice tinged with humour. “If you keep this up, I’ll have to start charging you for your entertainment.”

Lenora laughed, unbothered. “Oh, don’t mind me. I just think it’s adorable.” Catherine shot her a pointed look. “Don’t you have work to do after this?”
Lenora raised her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. You two enjoy your totally-not-a-date lunch.”

With a final wink, she walked off, leaving Catherine to groan quietly. “Do you always get this much commentary on your lunch plans?” Ian asked, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Only when Lenora’s involved,” Catherine replied with an exasperated sigh.
“Well,” he said, opening the café door for her, “at least it’s memorable.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at that, and as they stepped inside, she realised that maybe lunch with Ian wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Catherine fiddled with her napkin, her gaze drifting to the little vase of flowers on the table. The café was cosy, with warm wooden furniture and the comforting hum of quiet chatter. Across from her, Ian leaned back in his chair, casually observing the room before his attention settled on her.

“Do you always do that?” he asked, a trace of amusement in his tone.
“Do what?”
“Twist things in your hands when you’re thinking.” He nodded towards her napkin.
She glanced down and laughed softly, smoothing the fabric out on the table. “Habit, I guess. Helps me focus.”
“On what?”
“On not being nervous, for one,” she admitted, her cheeks warming.

Ian tilted his head, his expression gentler now. “You don’t have to be nervous, you know. It’s just lunch.”
“Easy for you to say,” she shot back with a small smile. “You’re not the one being teased by your colleagues.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I doubt anyone thinks this is anything more than two colleagues having a meal.”
“Just lunch, right?” Catherine quipped.
“Exactly. So, Catherine,”his tone light yet laced with curiosity,
“You and Sherlock Holmes. What’s it like working with someone like him?”

She tilted her head, slightly caught off guard. “What do you mean by ‘someone like him’?” Ian chuckled softly. “You know. He’s a legend. Solving impossible cases, outsmarting everyone in the room... It’s not exactly an everyday colleague dynamic.”

Catherine smiled faintly, tracing the rim of her water glass. “It’s... intense. Fascinating, frustrating, sometimes both in the span of five minutes.” He raised an eyebrow, prompting her to continue.

“He has this way of seeing things no one else notices,” she admitted. “And he expects everyone to keep up, which can be exhausting. But there’s no denying he’s brilliant.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Ian said, leaning forward slightly. “Do you think he’s always like that? Or is it just his... professional persona?” Catherine considered the question, her gaze distant. “Sherlock’s complicated. He puts up walls, but I think that’s just his way of dealing with how much he sees and feels. It’s like his mind is constantly working, and sometimes, it’s hard for him to switch it off.”

Ian nodded thoughtfully, his expression contemplative. “What about now? Is he working on anything interesting?”
Catherine glanced up, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, she thought she saw something deeper in his expression, something almost vulnerable.

She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “Why the sudden interest? Planning to write a biography on him?”
He laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Just curious. You don’t meet someone like Sherlock Holmes every day.”

“Well,” Catherine said, leaning back in her chair, “he’s always working on something. But he doesn’t talk about them much unless he’s sure he’s onto something.” Catherine didn’t leak any details about cases that Sherlock has handled.

Before the conversation could delve further, their food arrived, breaking the moment. Ian glanced at his plate and then back at Catherine. “Well, at least now I know one thing,” he said with a sly grin.
“And what’s that?”
He leaned forward, his voice low. “That I’ll never be able to keep up with Sherlock Holmes. But maybe I’ll have better luck with you.”

Catherine couldn’t help but laugh, her earlier apprehensions melting away as the warmth of their shared moment settled between them. But as they started eating, she couldn’t help but feel that her conversation with Ian had shifted something—something she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to face.

Chapter Text

The clock on the office wall struck five, Catherine gathered her things, slipping her laptop into her bag and smoothing the creases of her coat. She checked her phone, the faint glow of the screen reflecting her own thoughts.

Her fingers hesitated over the keys before typing
C: “Sherlock, Ian asked about you today after you are gone. He seemed curious about you and your cases. Nothing concrete yet, but it felt odd. I’m heading to Baker Street now.”

She hit send and slipped the phone into her coat pocket. The cool evening air greeted her as she stepped out of the office building. The streets of London were alive with the hustle of the end-of-day rush, but Catherine’s focus remained sharp. She flagged a cab, her mind racing with possibilities.

As soon as she reached Baker Street, Catherine spotted John standing outside, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, rubbing them together in a futile attempt to combat the biting chill of London. When he noticed her approach, he offered a brief wave. Catherine returned the gesture with a polite bow of her head before stepping past him into the familiar warmth of the house.

Ascending the stairs, her footsteps light yet deliberate, she entered the sitting room to find Sherlock was already on his feet, the rapid click of his heels echoing as he paced near the window. His phone rested on the table, no doubt having alerted him to her earlier message.

“I assume you’ve more to say than what you sent,” he began without preamble, his tone clipped, though his eyes darted to her as if analysing her every movement.

Catherine pulled off her coat, hanging it on the rack before turning to face him. “He asked about your cases. Casual, but it didn’t feel... casual. Almost like he wanted to know where your attention lies.”

“What specifically did he ask?” Sherlock interjected, his lips curling faintly at the corners, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes.

“General questions,” she said, crossing her arms. “What cases you’re working on, how long you’ve been involved. It could’ve been polite curiosity, but—”
Sherlock cut her off. “Polite curiosity is a cover. What else?”
“Nothing incriminating, Sherlock,” Catherine replied firmly. “I thought you’d want to know, but don’t overreact.”

Sherlock let out a huff, pacing again. “Overreact? Catherine, the man is wearing his motives like an ill-tailored suit. He’s been fishing since we crossed paths. Lenora noticed it; I noticed it. And now he’s probing you.”
She sighed, sitting down. “Not everyone’s harbouring dark secrets, you know.”

“Ian isn’t ‘everyone.’ His behaviour at the office screamed premeditated,” Sherlock shot back, his tone sharp. “Smiles are weapons, flattery is camouflage, and curiosity is a key to a locked door.”
“Or maybe,” Catherine countered, arching a brow, “he's just someone who likes small talk.”

“Oh God, Catherine, please spare me your naivety,” he said, turning to her with a piercing look. “The question isn’t whether Ian is hiding something—it’s what is his purpose.” Catherine frowned, leaning back into her chair. “Fine. If you’re so certain, what’s your plan?”

Sherlock’s lips curved into a wolfish grin. “Wait for his next mistake. He’ll make one. And when he does, we’ll be ready.” “Wonderful,” Catherine said dryly. “Just don’t drag me into your dramas.”

“Too late for that,” Sherlock said breezily, already lost in thought. Catherine rolled her eyes but couldn’t shake the flicker of unease settling in her chest. She reached for her coat, only to stop as the front door opened. John walked in, his cheeks tinged red from the London chill and his arms laden with two takeaway bags.

“What’s in the bags, John?” Catherine asked, her curiosity piqued as she stepped closer.
“Chow Mein from that Chinese place around the corner,” John replied, setting the bags down. He glanced at her, adding with a knowing smile, “You want some?”
Catherine wrinkled her nose slightly. “Not really a fan of Chow Mein. I prefer Dim Sum, or something else.”

John rummaged through the second bag, pulling out a smaller container. “Good thing I picked some up, then.”
Her eyes lit up as she leaned in. “Wait—is that—”
“Yup. Sherlock loves Dim Sum, so I grabbed it for him.” John grinned, handing her the container.

Catherine turned around and glanced toward the sofa, where Sherlock sat with one leg tucked under the other, flipping through a book as though entirely indifferent to their conversation. She held the container up with a wry smile. “Well, Sherlock, since I’m helping you keep an eye on Ian, the least you could do is share.”
Sherlock didn’t even look up, his tone dry as he turned a page. “I don’t recall asking for help when I saved you from Moriarty.”

Catherine bristled slightly, her grip tightening on the container. “Really? You’re pulling the ‘I saved you’ card over some Dim Sum?”
“I’m merely pointing out your flawed logic,” Sherlock replied, his voice taking on that characteristic inflection, as if he were explaining something painfully obvious. “I didn’t request repayment then, so why would you expect favours now?”

“God, you’re exhausting,” Catherine muttered, setting the container down with an exasperated huff.
John sighed, shaking his head as he unpacked the rest of the food. “I don’t know why either of you bother. Honestly, it’s like watching two children argue over the last biscuit.”

“I don’t argue,” Sherlock said flatly, still focused on his book.
“Right,” John deadpanned. “Because you’re always so agreeable.”
Sherlock ignored the jab, but Catherine couldn’t help the faint smirk that tugged at her lips.

And then Catherine grabbed her coat. “Well, as delightful as this has been, I think I’ll spare myself further exhaustion and leave you two to your feast.” She slung her coat over her arm and headed for the door, but before she could turn the handle, Sherlock’s voice stopped her.

“Wait.” The single word, so abrupt and uncharacteristically uncertain, made her pause. She glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

Sherlock closed his book with an audible snap and set it aside, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest of his chair. “You might as well stay. I mean I can’t finish all these Dim Sum by myself.” Catherine blinked, caught off guard by his word. “Are you… actually offering to share your food? Also it’s a normal portion of Dim Sum, what do you mean you can’t finish all these by yourself?”

John let out a laugh, muffling it with his hand. “Sherlock ?Willingly sharing food. I’m going to write this down in my blog.” Sherlock shot him a glare before turning his attention back to Catherine. “I don’t eat a lot, so that’s why I can’t finish all these Dim Sum.”

“Alright,” she replied, her face couldn’t hide her small smile as she walked to the dining table. “Well, since you’re begging me to stay, I suppose I could spare a few more minutes.” Sherlock didn’t dignify her teasing with a response, instead sliding one of the containers toward her. Catherine sat, picking up a pair of chopsticks as she exchanged an amused glance with John, who was still clearly enjoying the rare sight of Sherlock attempting to be hospitable. As Catherine bit into a Dim Sum, she couldn’t help but feel a tiny pang of warmth at the moment. Sherlock might be insufferable most of the time, but every so often, he managed to surprise her. Even if he’d never admit it.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Speaking of that, John, you have a blog? That’s brilliant! Sherlock mentioned you write, but I didn’t know you had your own blog,” Catherine said, her curiosity piqued as the thought popped into her head.

John, mid-bite of his chow mein, glanced up with a grin. “Oh, yeah. I’ve got one. Though, to be honest, it’s been months since I updated it. Been... well, you know, a bit preoccupied lately—with Jeanette and all.”

“Oh I see, I’ll have to check it out when I get home. Sounds interesting. Send me the link, yeah?” Catherine said.
John nodded, a proud smile forming. “Absolutely. Though, fair warning, it’s mostly case write-ups. Not exactly light bedtime reading.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Catherine replied, leaning back in her chair. “I could use a bit of entertainment that doesn’t involve... well, you know, watching someone climb out a window or dodge bullets.” Sherlock gave her a pointed look. “If you’re not careful, you might find yourself featured in one of those write-ups.”

Catherine smirked. “Oh, I’m sure. ‘The Woman Who Steal the Dim Sum.’ That’d make for a gripping headline.” John laughed, shaking his head. “I’ll leave the headline-writing to you two. I’m just the chronicler.”

The three settled into a companionable silence as they finished their food, the warm atmosphere of Baker Street feeling almost familial. After a while, Catherine glanced at the time and began to gather her things.

“Well, I’d better head off, I still have work tomorrow,” she said, standing in front of the door. “You’re always welcome, Catherine,” John said sincerely. “This place could use a bit more sanity.”

Sherlock gave a faint hum of agreement—or at least, not outright disagreement—as he pushed his chair back. “If you come across anything unusual about Ian, let me know immediately. The pieces are moving, and we don’t have the full picture yet.”

“Alright ‘Mr Detective’,” Catherine replied with a slight sarcasm in it, slipping on her coat.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Well, Catherine has developed sarcasm in her.” With a laugh, Catherine leaves the two men behind. As she stepped out into the cool London night, she couldn’t help but feel that Baker Street was starting to feel a lot like home.

The next morning, as Catherine arrived at the office, she noticed Lenora wasn’t in her usual place. It wasn’t like her to be late. Curious, Catherine decided to check the pantry, suspecting Lenora might be grabbing a quick coffee.

As she approached the pantry, the low hum of voices reached her ears. Rounding the corner, she recognised one of them immediately—it was Ian, chatting casually with a colleague. Catherine hesitated, her curiosity piqued. Without stepping fully into view, she leaned subtly against the wall, tilting her head just enough to catch their conversation. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was eavesdropping, but something compelled her to stay.

“So, what do you think of the new girl, Ian?” the colleague asked, their tone light and conversational.
“She’s nice,” Ian replied after a pause, his voice calm but tinged with something Catherine couldn’t quite place. “But I don’t like the company she keeps.”

“Who? Lenora?” the colleague probed, a hint of amusement in their voice.
“No,” Ian said, his tone lowering slightly. “Sherlock Holmes. Saw him yesterday. Didn’t get a good vibe from him, to be honest. He is such a troublemaker based on the news I heard from.”
“Sherlock Holmes?” The colleague sounded intrigued. “The consulting detective?”
“Yup,” Ian confirmed.

Catherine stiffened at the mention of Sherlock’s name, her grip tightening on the edge of the wall. As their conversation continued, she couldn’t shake the discomfort creeping through her. Ian’s disapproval of Sherlock wasn’t surprising—Sherlock had a knack for rubbing people the wrong way—but hearing it spoken aloud made her uneasy.

Even though Sherlock had certainly made his fair share of cutting remarks about Ian, it was different hearing the disdain echoed back. The exchange felt pointed, as if Ian’s dislike for Sherlock wasn’t just casual but laced with something more calculated.

Catherine drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to step away before either of them noticed her lingering presence. As she walked back toward her desk, her thoughts churned. Ian’s words lingered, like a thorn pressing against her mind.

Why was Ian so bothered by Sherlock? And why couldn’t she shake the feeling that there was more to this than just a clash of personalities?

“Morning, Cath. How was your day? ”

Catherine startled as Lenora’s voice cut through her thoughts, her heart racing from both her musings and Lenora’s sudden appearance. She turned to face her colleague, quickly masking her unease with a faint smile.

“Morning, Lenora. My day? Oh, it’s been… interesting,” Catherine replied, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
Lenora tilted her head curiously. “Interesting? Like?”
Catherine hesitated, then decided to take the plunge. “Actually, Lenora, I wanted to ask you something… about Ian.”
Lenora’s eyebrows shot up, a playful grin tugging at her lips. “Ian? What about him? Don’t tell me you’ve got your eye on him!”
Catherine’s cheeks flushed, and she waved her hands dismissively. “What? No, it’s not like that,” she said quickly. “I just… well, he seems a bit mysterious, doesn’t he?”

Lenora chuckled, leaning against the edge of Catherine’s desk. “Mysterious? Hardly. Ian’s one of the most straightforward people here. He’s been with the company for three years now—solid worker, never seen him make a mistake. He’s the kind of guy who gets along with everyone.”

“Everyone?” Catherine echoed, scepticism creeping into her tone despite her best efforts.
“Well, as far as I know,” Lenora replied with a shrug. Then, with a teasing glint in her eye, she added, “Why? Are you sure you’re not interested in him?”

Catherine shook her head firmly, her smile tight. “No, definitely not. It’s just… I’ve got a weird feeling about him, that’s all.”
Lenora laughed. “A weird feeling? Catherine, you’ve been spending too much time dealing with cases, haha.”

Catherine forced a small laugh, but her unease remained. “Yeah, maybe.” Later, when Catherine was pouring herself a cup of water, she sensed someone approaching. She turned her head slightly and found Ian standing there, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Ian remarked, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of curiosity. “Everything alright?”
Catherine forced a casual smile, focusing on the tea in her hands. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind. Busy week and all that.”

Ian studied her for a moment longer than necessary, and Catherine could feel his gaze weighing on her. “You’re sure?” he pressed. She shrugged, keeping her tone light. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Ian smirked faintly. “No reason. You just seem… distracted. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”
“Will do,” Catherine replied, her smile unwavering.
As Ian walked away, she let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. He hadn’t seemed suspicious, but there was something about the way he watched her that sent a chill down her spine.

She resolved to be more careful. If Ian was keeping tabs on her, she’d need to tread lightly. For now, she’d wait and watch—just as Sherlock had taught her. Catherine’s resolve to tread lightly was tested almost immediately. As she returned to her desk, she caught Ian glancing in her direction, his expression carefully neutral. She tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the reports she needed to review. But the sensation of being watched lingered, and it gnawed at her nerves.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, though Catherine couldn’t shake the feeling that Ian was observing her movements. By lunch, she decided she needed to steer the situation in her favour. In the pantry, Catherine found Lenora preparing a salad. Seizing the moment, she grabbed a cup of tea and leaned casually against the counter.

“Lenora,” Catherine began, her voice deliberately light, “does Ian always pay such close attention to people?”
Lenora looked up, a curious smile playing on her lips. “Close attention? What do you mean?”

Catherine hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I mean, he seems… observant. Like he notices things most people wouldn’t.”
Lenora laughed, shaking her head. “That’s just Ian. He’s got this knack for reading people. Honestly, it’s a bit uncanny sometimes. But it’s nothing to worry about—he’s just one of those guys who picks up on details.”

“Right,” Catherine said, nodding thoughtfully. She sipped her tea, letting the information settle.
Lenora tilted her head, studying Catherine with a teasing grin. “You know, you’ve been bringing him up a lot today. Are you sure you’re not secretly interested?”

Catherine rolled her eyes, a laugh escaping her. “For the last time, no. It’s just… I’ve got this weird gut feeling about him, that’s all.”
Lenora shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you’re looking for trouble, you won’t find it with Ian. He’s one of the good ones.”

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Catherine turned to see Ian entering the pantry, his gaze briefly flicking between her and Lenora.

“Lunch break is almost over,” he remarked, his tone casual but his eyes lingering on Catherine for a beat too long. Lenora waved him off playfully. “We’re coming, don’t worry. Catherine just needed to pry about you a little more.”

Catherine stiffened, shooting Lenora a sharp look. “I wasn’t prying,” she said quickly, laughing it off. “Just making conversation.” Ian raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Good to know I’m such a fascinating topic,” he said dryly before walking out. Catherine exhaled slowly, her heart pounding. That smirk—it wasn’t just amusement. It was knowing.

Later that afternoon, Catherine was working at her desk when Ian approached. He stood by her side, too close for comfort, holding a file.

“I need your input on this international case,” he said, setting the file down.
Catherine glanced up, her smile polite but guarded. “Sure. What’s the issue?”
As she scanned the contents, Ian leaned slightly closer. “You and Lenora seemed to be having an interesting chat earlier,” he said lightly.
Catherine’s grip on the file tightened, but she kept her voice steady. “Oh, just the usual office gossip. Nothing groundbreaking.”
“Hmm.” His tone was noncommittal, but there was a glint in his eye that Catherine didn’t trust.

She straightened, handing the file back to him. “This looks fine. Just double-check the figures in section three—they seem a bit off.” Ian took the file, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. “Thanks. And Catherine—don’t overthink things. Sometimes, a gut feeling is just that.”

He walked away, leaving Catherine with a strange mix of frustration and unease. She had managed to deflect his questions, but his words left her unsettled. Was he trying to warn her, or was he testing her? Whatever the case, Catherine knew one thing for certain: Ian wasn’t as harmless as Lenora believed. And if he was connected to Sherlock’s world, she’d have to be even more careful.

By the time the office clock chimed five, Catherine’s shoulders were tense with the weight of unanswered questions. Her conversation with Lenora hadn’t provided the clarity she’d hoped for. If anything, it had only added to the puzzle.

As she packed her things, she caught sight of Ian across the office floor. He was leaning over a colleague’s desk, his expression neutral, his laugh easy. To anyone else, he looked like a trusted, hardworking team member. But to Catherine, there was something unsettling in his ease, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Her instincts told her to keep her distance, but her curiosity whispered otherwise.
“Have a good evening, Catherine,” Lenora called cheerfully as she passed by, snapping Catherine out of her thoughts.
“You too,” she replied automatically, slipping on her coat.

As she stepped into the cool evening air, Catherine resolved to tread carefully. Ian might appear harmless, but there was something about him that didn’t add up. And if there was one thing she’d learned from Sherlock, it was to trust her instincts.

With her breath visible in the chilly air, Catherine tightened her scarf and made her way down the street. For now, the pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit—but she intended to change that.

Chapter Text

The faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small kitchen as Catherine poured herself a cup, letting the quiet hum of her Sunday morning soothe her nerves. She leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the overcast London sky. The world outside seemed peaceful, the kind of peace she hadn’t felt in days.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, breaking her thought. She glanced at the screen and frowned—just a message from a uni friend asking to catch up. No emergencies, no notes from mum, no messages from work. A relief, really, but the silence still felt oddly heavy.

With a sigh, she settled onto the sofa, curling her legs beneath her and reaching for the book she’d been trying to finish for weeks. But even as her eyes scanned the words, her mind wandered. Ian’s voice echoed in her thoughts, mingling with Sherlock’s warnings to stay alert.

So, she opened her laptop and began scrolling through John’s blog. The latest post was titled By Royal Appointment, and though she had no intention of reading much, the last paragraph caught her attention.

‘And I'm sure it won't be the last time we hear the name Irene Adler. In fact, I'm pretty certain he's getting texts from her. It's funny, in the time I've known him, I've never seen him take the slightest interest in a woman but this one... She's got to him.’

Irene Adler? Catherine’s brow furrowed as she reread the name, her stomach doing a strange little flip. Is this… Sherlock’s love interest? The thought hit her harder than she expected, leaving her momentarily stunned. Sherlock Holmes, of all people? Falling in love? That’s… surprising, I suppose. I mean, it’s Sherlock. But still.

Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, hesitating to scroll down. Why do I feel so… weird about this? she wondered, her chest tightening slightly. She pushed back the ridiculous feeling creeping up on her. It was none of her business. She barely knew Irene Adler, and Sherlock’s personal life was entirely his own affair.

And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the annoyance bubbling inside her. Oh, God, Catherine, what is wrong with you? Why are you even thinking about this? It’s not like it matters to you… does it?

A sharp knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She wasn’t expecting anyone, she crossed the room, peeking through the peephole.

“John?” she said, opening the door.
“Morning, Catherine.” John stood there, holding a paper bag that smelled suspiciously like pastries. “Thought you could use some company.”

She blinked at him in surprise. “You? Shouldn’t you be having brunch with Jeanette?”
He chuckled, stepping inside. “She’s off with some friends today. Besides, Sherlock told me you might need a bit of distraction.”
“He did?” Catherine muttered, her lips twitching into a faint smile.
“Well, why isn’t he coming along? ”

“Oh, he’s busy.” John started unpacking his bag, his tone shifting to one of mild exasperation. “Clearly, he is doing some important research with the case he is currently working on.”

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot he is working on a case. Do you know the details, John?” Catherine looked at his bag while asking.
John waved a hand dismissively, grabbing a croissant. “Something about a client with too many enemies. Usual drama. He claims it’s all really easy, so apparently, we shouldn’t lose sleep over it. Not that he ever sleeps, mind you.”

“Well, he is a detective,” Catherine replied dryly, reaching for a mug. She filled it with tea and offered it to him, which he accepted with a quick nod of thanks.

As she poured herself a cup, her thoughts drifted back to the blog she’d read earlier. The name Irene Adler surfaced in her mind, uninvited but insistent. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “John, can I ask you something?”
John glanced up, his brow furrowing slightly. “Go on.”

“Well…” She hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the tea towel. “It’s about your blog.” His expression shifted to one of cautious amusement. “Let me guess—The Aluminium Crutch? Or maybe the Hat-Man and Robin?”

Catherine forced a laugh. “Neither. It’s, uh, Irene Adler.” At the name, John’s amused expression faltered slightly, replaced with something more thoughtful. “Ah. Irene. What about her?”

John leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as he considered his words. “Well, long story short, she managed to outwit him.”
Catherine blinked. “She outsmarted Sherlock?”
“Oh, she didn’t just outsmart him,” John replied, his tone dry but edged with reluctant admiration. “She played him like a bloody violin. He wasn’t just impressed—he was… affected. Not that he’d admit it, of course. But Irene Adler was one of the few people who ever managed to shake him up.”

“She must’ve been remarkable,” Catherine said softly, though the tightening in her chest was anything but admiration. “What happened to her?”

John shrugged, taking a slow sip of tea. “Well we don’t know. Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother, stopped us from dealing with this case.”

Catherine blinked at the mention of Mycroft, her mind immediately jumping to the last encounter she’d had with the Mycroft. He had been polite, but the undercurrent of power and control had been unmistakable. She shivered slightly. If Mycroft was involved, this Irene Adler must have been more than just “complicated.”

“I see. Well, I suppose it’s not surprising,” she said, her voice deliberately neutral. Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup before she forced herself to relax. “She certainly sounds… fascinating. But enough about her. You mentioned pastries?”

John looked at her curiously for a moment, as if sensing there was more she wasn’t saying, but he let it slide. “Ah, yes! Fresh from that little bakery down the street. They make the best croissants.”

“Oh, I love that place,” Catherine said, leaning forward to examine the selection in the bag. She picked up a pain au chocolat, the buttery pastry flaking slightly under her touch. “You have excellent taste, John.”

John grinned, clearly pleased with the compliment. “I’ll take the credit for finding the place, but don’t tell Sherlock. He’ll probably claim he deduced it before I did.”

Catherine chuckled softly, appreciating the shift to a lighter mood. She took a bite of the pastry, savouring the rich chocolate and delicate, flaky layers, letting it momentarily distract her from the lingering unease at the back of her mind.

The morning was filled with laughter and warm conversation between Catherine and John, making the hours slip by unnoticed. Neither of them thought to check the time, but Catherine's stomach had its own way of reminding her. Mid-sentence, as she was enthusiastically describing the irresistible allure of authentic Chinese cuisine, her stomach let out a loud, undeniable growl.

John raised an amused eyebrow as Catherine laughed, placing a hand over her stomach. Glancing at the clock, he blinked in surprise. “Well, would you look at that—it’s already noon! Time really does fly when you’re having a good chat, doesn’t it?”
Catherine smiled. “Indeed, but I think my stomach’s making its demands pretty clear.”
John chuckled and stood, brushing crumbs off his hands. “Alright then, let’s not keep it waiting. Do you have something in mind?”
Catherine tapped her chin thoughtfully before her eyes lit up. “What about Chinese food? Since we were just talking about it, it seems fitting.”
“Chinese it is,” John replied with a grin.

They grabbed their coats and stepped outside, greeted by the crisp Sunday air that carried the faint aroma of roasting chestnuts and city life. The streets bustled with activity—couples strolling hand-in-hand, street performers gathering small crowds, and the occasional bark of a dog trotting alongside its owner.

As they reached the restaurant, the mouthwatering aroma of freshly steamed dumplings and roasted duck welcomed them warmly. Catherine sighed contentedly. “This is exactly what I needed.”

Inside, the place was lively but inviting, filled with the gentle clatter of chopsticks, cheerful chatter, and the occasional clinking of teacups. They found a corner table, and John handed Catherine the menu. “You’re the expert here. Order whatever you think is best.”

She smirked playfully. “Oh, I feel like there’s a secret menu hiding here somewhere.” Catherine scanned the restaurant until her eyes landed on an elderly woman leaning on the counter, looking every bit like she owned the place. Catherine raised her hand, signing the elderly to come to their place.

“老板娘，不好意思，请问有没有菜单上没有的食物？比如说麻辣烫，煎饼果子啥的。”
(Excuse me, ma’am. Do you happen to have any off-menu items? Like malatang or Chinese-style omelette wraps?) she asked.

The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, clearly taken aback to hear such authentic Beijing Mandarin from a British-looking girl like Catherine. John was equally stunned—this was the first time he’d ever heard Catherine speak in Chinese.

“哎妈呀，当然有了，小姑娘。来来，阿姨给你介绍一些本店不跟外人讲的食物。那些老外，艾玛，都不能接受这些美食，真没品。”
(Oh my goodness, of course we do, sweetheart. Come here, let me introduce you to some dishes we don’t usually tell outsiders about. Those foreigners, oh my, they just can’t handle these delicacies. No taste at all!) The woman replied with enthusiasm.

Catherine laughed softly, exchanging a conspiratorial smile with the woman. Turning back to their table, she caught John’s curious expression and smirked. “I told you there was a secret menu.”

“那太好了，那老板娘这里有啥好吃推荐不。”
(Good to know! What do you recommend, ma’am) Catherine asked with a wide grin.

The woman beamed at Catherine, clearly delighted by her interest.
“我们其实本来是湘味馆，不过这些老外接受不了，所以不卖了。可是我们还有烧烤，麻辣烫，酸菜炒土豆丝，剁椒鱼。阿姨听你口音，艾玛老北京人了，我们这也有老北京炸酱面，让你回味回味。”
(We were originally a Hunan restaurant, but the foreigners think it is way exotic, so we stopped selling it. But we still have Chinese barbecue, Malatang, stir-fried shredded potatoes with pickled cabbage, and boiled fish. From your accent, sweetheart, I can tell you’re a true Beijinger. We even have old Beijing-style noodles with soybean paste—I bet it’ll remind you of Beijing!)

Catherine’s face lit up, a warm wave of nostalgia washing over her. The woman’s words transported her back to her time in China, where every meal felt like a small celebration of flavour.
“算了吧，来一个麻辣烫吧，好久没吃了。”
(It’s okay, just give me Malatang; it’s been ages since I’ve had it.)

She turned to John with a teasing look. “John, can you tolerate spicy food, or...?” John blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Oh, me? Well, I mean, a little bit, I suppose.”

Catherine gave him a knowing smirk before turning back to the woman.
“啊，还是算了吧，怕他等下被辣死。还是给他来个砂锅蒜蓉虾吧，实在太感谢了老板娘。”
(Never mind, I’m afraid he might not survive it. Just give him claypot garlic shrimp, please. Thank you so much, ma’am.)

The woman laughed heartily, nodding as she wrote down their order. “没事小姑娘，我反而还要感谢你让我老伴有做正宗中国菜的机会昵哈哈哈”
(No problem, sweetheart, thanks to you, my partner could cook authentic Chinese food.)

Catherine laughed together with her. John looked at her, amused but slightly suspicious. “What did you just say to her?”
“Oh, nothing,” she replied innocently. “Just making sure you get something you can handle. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

John raised an eyebrow, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“There’s plenty you don’t know about me, John,” Catherine teased, pouring hot water into a bowl that had been conveniently set near their seat.
John leaned forward, watching her movements with growing curiosity. “What are you doing now?”

“Washing the utensils,” Catherine replied casually, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Picked it up from my Chinese friends.”
“And the point of this…?” His tone was laced with confusion.
Catherine gave a light laugh. “Honestly? I don’t really know all the details myself. It’s just something they do.”

The woman returned to their table with their foods, catching sight of Catherine meticulously rinsing her chopsticks. Her face lit up like a proud mother.
“哎妈呀，小姑娘你也会烫碗。等着，我拿个盆给你倒水。”
(Oh my, sweetheart, you wash your utensils too? Wait, I’ll grab a basin for you to pour the water away.)

“谢谢,”(Thank you) Catherine replied, her smile warm.

The woman placed their food on the table before disappearing back into the kitchen, leaving behind a mouth-watering aroma.
“What is that smell?” John asked, once again.
“Your claypot garlic shrimp or My Malatang?” Catherine laughed.
“What is Malatang?” John asked.
“Think of it as a quick hot pot, a Sichuan classic.” She replied.

John’s eyes drifted to the vivid crimson broth. “It looks like it could kill somebody.”
Catherine laughed. “Exactly why I didn’t order it for you.”
“Alright,” John muttered, eyeing the bowl with suspicion. “I’ve always considered it an achievement to survive one of Mrs. Hudson’s curries—this might actually finish me off.”
“My mum's curries aren't that spicy, you're just weak, John.” Catherine laughed.

Just as John was cautiously reaching for his shrimp, the familiar sound of a phone buzzing cut through the lively din of the restaurant. Catherine glanced at her own phone, but it wasn’t hers. John pulled his phone out of his pocket and groaned at the name flashing on the screen.

John sighed, staring at the screen for a moment longer before silencing the call. “It’s Sherlock.” Catherine quirked an eyebrow. “Are you going to just ignore it?”

“Let’s just say I’ve gotta enjoy my meal before him,” John replied with a wry smile, popping the bite-sized delight into his mouth. Before Catherine could respond, the restaurant door opened with a jingle, and in strode none other than Sherlock Holmes, coat sweeping behind him like a storm cloud. He paused just inside, his sharp gaze scanning the room. When his eyes landed on them, he smirked in that unmistakably Sherlock way, as if he knew exactly what they’d been talking about seconds before his arrival.

“Well,” Sherlock said, striding towards their table. “You two seem to be enjoying yourselves.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flashing across her face. “Sherlock, don’t tell me you’ve been following us.”

Sherlock slid into the seat beside John without so much as an invitation. “Following? No. But if you’re going to sit by the window, in full view of anyone passing by, you’re not exactly hard to find.”

John sighed heavily, already resigned to his lunch being interrupted. “So, what are you doing here? And please tell me it’s not another life-or-death situation.”
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “No, nothing quite so dramatic. I was conducting some research in the area and happened to spot the two of you. Thought I’d drop in.”

Catherine crossed her arms, leaning back slightly. “Research? Or did you just get bored?” Sherlock gave her an amused glance. “A bit of both, perhaps.”

The woman from the restaurant came by with a fresh pot of tea and looked delighted at the addition to their group.
“朋友吗，稍等，我拿个杯给他。”
(A friend joining? One moment, I’ll grab him a glass.)

“谢谢,”(Thank you) Sherlock replied. Three of them were clearly surprised. “You speak Mandarin young men?” the woman asked.
“Some simple words,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, earning a wide grin from the woman. He poured himself a cup of tea as if he’d been part of their lunch all along.

“You never mentioned that,” Catherine muttered, clearly unimpressed. “Had no chance,” Sherlock replied, before turning his attention to the steaming plates on the table. His gaze landed on Catherine’s bowl of Malatang. “And what exactly is that?”

“Malatang,” Catherine said. “It’s spicy. Very spicy. So, unless you’ve got a secret love for setting your mouth on fire, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Oh, here we go,” John groaned, folding his arms and watching the inevitable unfold.

Catherine handed Sherlock a spare set of chopsticks, smirking as he plucked a piece of tofu from the molten red broth. With the confidence of a man who had never known defeat, Sherlock took a bite.

For a moment, his expression remained neutral, as though he were analysing the flavour with detached curiosity. Then, his eyes widened slightly, and he reached for the tea with uncharacteristic urgency. Catherine burst into laughter, her shoulders shaking as she nearly spilled her own bowl. “I told you!”

Sherlock set the cup down with deliberate composure, though the redness creeping up his cheeks betrayed him. “It’s… stimulating.”
John snorted. “You mean it’s killing you. And yet, you still can’t resist trying to prove a point, can you?”

Sherlock glanced at him coolly, though his voice was a touch hoarse. “If one never tests their limits, one never knows their full potential.” John rolled his eyes. “That’s one way to justify terrible decisions.”

As the warmth of the meal settled, the conversation turned to lighter topics. Catherine leaned back in her chair, stirring the remnants of her Malatang thoughtfully. “You know, this is one of the few places in London that actually feels like Beijing. I missed this… the noise, the smells, even the clatter of chopsticks.”

John arched an eyebrow, a hint of scepticism colouring his tone. “Not to be that guy, but ten years in China? Did you never ever get homesick for London?”

Catherine tilted her head, her expression contemplative. “Sometimes. But Beijing’s got its own charm—constant energy, people chasing dreams, food carts on every corner. It’s a city that never sleeps, much like Sherlock here.” She gestured towards him with a wry smile.

Sherlock, who had been quietly sipping his tea, glanced up with a faint smirk. “I do sleep.”
“Rarely,” John muttered, not bothering to mask the sarcasm.
Catherine chuckled, her eyes glinting with amusement. “He has a point.”
John leaned forward, genuinely curious. “So, what was it like? Living there all that time?”

Her face lit up as she launched into a story. “Oh, incredible. There’s this park in Beijing where locals gather every morning to practise tai chi or dance. I joined in once, and this elderly man—he must’ve been eighty—completely outdanced me. Then he told me in Mandarin that his three-year-old grandson could do better.”

John laughed, shaking his head at the image. “Brutal.”
“Right? But he offered to teach me. And… I got slightly better. Slightly,” Catherine added, laughing.

Sherlock, who had been observing with faint amusement, suddenly interjected. “Speaking of dancing, I imagine John here is catastrophically inept on a dance floor.”
John narrowed his eyes. “I’ll have you know I’m able to dance really well.”
“Right,” Sherlock echoed with an edge of disdain.

John rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Alright then, what about you? Can you dance, Sherlock?”
Sherlock set down his cup with an air of exaggerated dignity. “I can waltz, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow, clearly sceptical. “Really? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“You’re welcome to challenge me,” Sherlock replied smoothly, though the faint curl of his lips suggested he was enjoying the banter.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Catherine said with a grin.

As their light-hearted exchange continued, the restaurant began to quiet down, the lunchtime bustle fading. The woman from earlier returned to their table with a small bowl of fruit, smiling warmly.

“吃点水果吧，饭后吃这个对身体好。”
(Have some fruit, it’s good for digestion after a meal.)

“谢谢,”(Thank you) Catherine said, bowing her head slightly.
Sherlock and John both muttered their thanks as well, though John looked particularly pleased at the unexpected treat.
“This has been nice,” John said after a moment, his voice softer. “You know, just… slowing down for once. No cases, no stress. Just good food and decent company.”
“Decent?” Catherine teased.
“Alright, alright—good company,” John corrected, grinning.

Sherlock leaned back, his expression unusually relaxed. “It’s not often we get moments like this. Perhaps we should do it more.”
Catherine raised her cup of tea in a mock toast. “To more moments like this, then.”
John and Sherlock exchanged a glance before lifting their cups as well. “To more moments like this,” they echoed, and for once, everything felt perfectly simple.

Chapter Text

Next day, the second week of November, the chill in the air had intensified, and Catherine found herself reluctantly silencing her alarm. Sitting up in bed, she stared at the faint morning light peeking through the curtains, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

“Why am I doing this to myself? Ugh,” she groaned, rubbing her face. “I could’ve just stayed in bed, living off the money dad left for me and mum.” Her voice was muffled as she buried her face into her pillow, clutching it tightly like it might offer some comfort.

But, as comforting as her pillow was, it didn’t change reality. With a sigh of defeat, Catherine dragged herself out of bed, her feet brushing against the cold floorboards.

After a quick splash of cold water on her face, she heard a faint sound outside her door. She pulled it open and saw the familiar sight of her breakfast tray, neatly prepared and waiting for her. A sticky note was perched on the tray, written in Mr Frasco’s impeccable handwriting:

“Enjoy your breakfast. I’m heading to the supermarket, so I’ve left early. — Frasco.”

She finished her breakfast and got ready for the day, putting on her usual attire: a tailored coat and sensible boots. The look was polished but understated, just how she liked it.

Grabbing her bag and scarf, she made her way out the door, stepping into the crisp November air. The walk to the office was brisk, her breath puffing in little clouds as she turned the corner onto the busy street.

As she pushed open the glass doors of the office building, the warm hum of activity greeted her, along with the cheerful voice of Lenora.

“Well, well, if it isn’t London’s prettiest solicitor,” Lenora quipped, leaning on the desk with a grin.
“And if it isn’t London’s nosiest receptionist,” Catherine shot back with a smirk, unwinding her scarf and draping it over her arm.

Lenora pretended to gasp, clutching at her heart. “Nosy? I’ll have you know I prefer the term ‘informed.’ And as your best work friend, it’s my duty to stay in the loop.”

Catherine chuckled, leaning on the desk. “Alright, what’s the gossip today?”
“Hmm, let’s see… Mrs Reid from accounting brought in questionable muffins again, Peter spilled coffee on himself—and oh! There’s a very mysterious-looking client waiting for you in the conference room. Didn’t even give his name, just said he needed to see you.”

Catherine blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. “A mysterious client? Did he at least say what it was about?”
Lenora shook her head, her grin widening with mischief. “Nope. Just a man with dark hair, neatly styled, and a dark tailored suit. Thought he might’ve been one of your friends.”

“I have no idea who you are describing, Lenora. Let me check, talk to you later,” Catherine waved to her as she walked to the conference room.

As she reached the door, she noticed that the light inside wasn’t switched on. Only the muted daylight streaming through the frosted windows gave the room a dim, shadowy glow.

She pushed the door open cautiously, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. “Miss Hudson?” a low, measured voice came from the far corner of the room.

Catherine turned her head toward the sound, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Standing near the window was a man in a perfectly tailored black suit. His posture was straight, almost unnervingly composed, and his hands rested casually in his pockets. The faint glow from the window highlighted his neatly styled dark hair, the sharp line of his jaw, and the faintest flicker of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“That’s me, you are?” she replied, her voice steady despite the unease curling in her stomach. The man stepped forward, his shoes making no sound against the floor, as if he were deliberately keeping his movements quiet. He stopped just short of where the light hit the table.

“Richard Brook,” he said with a smile that seemed far too polite. “A pleasure to meet you.” Catherine’s brow furrowed slightly as she studied him. There was something about him—something that set off the faintest alarm bells in her mind. His voice was smooth, his tone polite, but there was an underlying note she couldn’t quite place.

As Catherine took her seat across from Richard Brook, he offered her a disarming smile that seemed genuine enough, though something about it felt just a little too practiced. “What can I do for you, Mr Brook?” she asked, keeping her tone professional.

“I hear you studied law in China?” he began, his voice light and melodic, with a lilt that seemed designed to disarm. “Interesting choice. A touch unexpected, but very... clever.”

Catherine nodded, her professional demeanour unwavering. “Yes. It gave me insight into international legal frameworks. How can I assist you, Mr Brook?”

“Oh, you already are,” Richard replied smoothly, his gaze sharpening even as his tone remained conversational. “I’ve been working with a Chinese firm—a rather complicated joint venture. Brilliant people, but the legal side... Well, it’s all very puzzling.” His grin widened, flashing teeth that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I thought, who better to untangle it than someone like you?”

Catherine kept her tone steady. “Are you looking to establish a long-term partnership?”
“Exactly,” he said, drawing out the word like a cat toying with a mouse. “And you must know, Chinese firms—they have such... fascinating approaches to negotiation. Almost surgical. Tell me, do you find that’s true?”

Her brow furrowed ever so slightly as she considered him. “It depends on the firm, but they can be detail-oriented, yes.”
“Hmm.” Richard hummed thoughtfully, leaning forward. “And what about you? What possessed you to pack your bags and go running off to China? A rather unusual decision, don’t you think?”

“I wanted a challenge,” Catherine replied, maintaining her composure. “And I got one.”
“Did you now?” His voice took on a sing-song quality, each word delicately balanced. “How very brave. Ten years... Quite the commitment. Must’ve been terribly lonely, though.”

Her smile tightened. “It was rewarding. Shaped me into who I am today.” Richard tilted his head, his expression taking on a sinister playfulness. “Oh, I can see that. Sharp, confident, unyielding. Like a blade honed to perfection. But here you are, back in London. Are you finding it as... fulfilling as you’d hoped?”

“Mr Brook, I’d prefer we focus on your legal concerns,” Catherine replied as she found out that he keeps asking questions that are unrelated. His laugh spilled out, high-pitched and almost childlike, yet laced with something darker. “Oh, of course, of course. I just find you so interesting. There’s something about you—like a puzzle begging to be solved. Do you know what I mean?” His eyes locked onto hers, unblinking.

“You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed,” she replied. “If you’d like assistance, I’m happy to provide it. Otherwise—”
Richard waved a hand, cutting her off with a dismissive, theatrical flourish. “No need to get prickly, Miss Hudson. We’re all friends here, aren’t we? But you’re right. Work is work, after all.”

He stood suddenly, his movements fluid, as if he’d grown bored of the conversation. Extending his hand, he smiled again, the mask back in place. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.”

Catherine rose, shaking his hand with a grip that matched his strength. “I look forward to it.”
As he turned to leave, he paused at the door, glancing back with a glint of mischief in his eye. “London’s a small world, Miss Hudson. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again.”

His voice echoed in her mind as he disappeared down the corridor, leaving an unsettling silence in his wake. Catherine sat back, something about Richard Brook fell off.

Catherine tried to shake off the unsettling encounter with Richard Brook as she returned to her desk, but his words lingered like a faint chill on her skin. The hum of the office was a welcome distraction, but it didn’t last long. A soft knock at the door frame drew her attention. She looked up to see Ian Anwir standing there, his posture relaxed, though his expression carried a hint of curiosity.

“Caught you in the middle of something, have I?” he asked, his voice carrying that easy, unhurried cadence that somehow made even mundane questions feel considerate.

“Always,” Catherine replied with a faint smile. “What can I do for you?” Ian stepped inside, his hands in his pockets as he cast a casual glance around the room. “I just thought I’d check in. You seemed a bit off earlier. I called your name in the corridor but you didn’t respond, is everything alright?”

Catherine hesitated, weighing whether to share anything about Richard Brook. A knot of unease in her stomach told her to keep it to herself for now. “So sorry I was thinking of something,” she said lightly, forcing a small smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

He tilted his head slightly, a faint crease forming on his brow. “If you say so,” he said, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Still, if there’s anything I can do to help, you only need to ask. Teamwork and all that.”

“Thanks, Ian,” she replied, her voice softening. “I appreciate it.”
Ian nodded slowly, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Alright, do me a favour, yeah? If I ever say or do anything that puts you on edge, let me know straight away.”

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, but she managed a nod. “Of course.”
“Actually,” he continued, his tone shifting to something more matter-of-fact, “why don’t we exchange numbers? If anything comes up—work-related or otherwise—you can get hold of me easily.”

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Alright.” They exchanged numbers quickly, the moment feeling oddly formal for such a simple act. Ian headed towards the door, but paused just before stepping out. With a warm smile, he glanced back. “Take care of yourself, Catherine. Don’t let the workload grind you down.”

The words lingered in the air after he left, softer than she had expected from him. Catherine stared at the closed door for a moment before shaking herself back to the present. With a sigh, she returned to her desk, though her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

By the time she got home that evening, the city lights had started to glow against the dimming London sky. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her shoulders. Tossing her bag onto the black couch, she grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge and settled down, letting her head fall back against the cushions. The day had been long and relentless, filled with meetings, emails, and the nagging feeling that she was being watched.

She frowned at the thought, brushing it away. Maybe it was just residual paranoia from the encounter with Richard Brook. His appearance had unsettled her far more than she cared to admit, and the fact that she couldn’t pin down his intentions made it worse.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, pulling her from her thoughts. She reached for it, expecting a message from her mum checking in or perhaps Lenora sharing some silly meme. Instead, Ian’s name appeared on the screen.

I: “Evening, Catherine. Hope you’re managing to unwind after today. Quick question—did I do something that makes you uncomfortable?”

Catherine stared at the message, her chest tightening slightly. She hadn’t expected him to address it so directly. Truthfully, she did change her mind about Ian after overhearing his opinion of Sherlock. In an instant, he had gone from a good-natured gentleman to someone who carried an air of quiet calculation—subtle, but enough to unsettle her.

C: “Hi, Ian. It’s nothing you did, honestly. Just a lot on my mind. Apologies if I came across as distant—it wasn’t intentional.”
I: “Fair enough. Just wanted to be sure. You know where to find me if you ever need to talk—or need anything at all.”
C: “Thanks, Ian. I appreciate it.”

Setting her phone aside, Catherine let out a slow breath. The guilt tugged at her again—she shouldn’t have been so quick to judge him last week. He wasn’t perfect, but that didn’t mean he deserved to be painted as a villain in her mind. Still, his attentiveness wasn’t helping her clear her thoughts.

The next morning, London greeted her with its usual grey skies and a faint drizzle misting the air. Catherine pulled her coat tighter around her as she walked to work, her heels clicking against the damp pavement. She tried to focus on the day ahead, but then there was Ian—his sudden concern for her well-being was unexpected, and it left her questioning whether she’d misjudged him entirely.

As she entered Sheiza Solicitors, the warm hum of activity greeted her, a small reprieve from her restless mind. Lenora waved at her from the reception desk, her bright smile cutting through the morning haze.
“Morning, Cath!” Lenora chirped. “You’ve got a meeting with Peter at ten and a new case briefing at eleven. Busy day ahead.”
“Thanks, Lenora,” Catherine forced a smile.

As she settled into her desk, she pulled her laptop from her bag and powered it on. The familiar hum of the office usually calmed her, but today it felt distant, as though she were standing apart from it all. She was reaching for her notebook when her phone buzzed, breaking her concentration.

Frowning, she glanced at the screen. She expected it to be her mum, instead, the words Unknown Number stared back at her. Her stomach tightened as she opened the message.

“I hope your morning is as sharp as your wit, Miss Hudson. Till we meet again. – R.B.”
Her blood ran cold. R.B.—Richard Brook.

Her grip on the phone tightened. “How did he get my number?” She stared at the message, pulse quickening. The office, once a space of comfort, suddenly felt far less secure.

Before she could fully process it, a knock at the door jolted her back to the present. Quickly, she shoved her phone into her bag as Ian stepped in, holding a stack of papers.
“Catherine, we need your input on the Mr Cheng contract,” he said briskly.
“Of course,” she replied, pushing herself to her feet. As she reached to take the documents, their fingers brushed briefly. A flicker of something—curiosity? Concern?—crossed Ian’s expression, but it vanished just as quickly.
As they worked through the contract, Catherine struggled to stay focused. Ian’s explanations were clear and logical, but her mind kept wandering back to the text. Why would Richard Brook contact her again? What did he want? And most importantly, how much danger was she truly in?

It took Catherine a moment to shake off the lingering unease. She forced herself to refocus, nodding as Ian repeated his point about the contract details. But even as she tried to listen, her mind was still tangled with the message from Richard Brook.

After a few more minutes, Ian set his pen down and studied her. “You’re distracted.” Catherine tensed slightly but masked it with a small smile. “Just a lot on my mind.”
Ian’s arms crossed. “Anything I should be concerned about?” Catherine hesitated for half a second too long. She knew she couldn’t mention Richard—not without raising suspicion or making herself sound paranoid. Instead, she shook her head. “No, I just didn’t sleep well.”

Ian didn’t look entirely convinced, but he let it go, turning back to the documents. “Alright. Just don’t mess up the clauses—we don’t want a lawsuit because you’re sleep-deprived.”

Catherine is grateful for the change in conversation. “I’d have to be unconscious before I let that happen.” Ian gave her a knowing look but didn’t press further. “Alright. See you at the meeting later.” As he left, Catherine leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.

At ten o’clock, she made her way to the meeting room, sliding into her usual seat at the long conference table. The scent of burnt coffee clung to the air, mixing with the quiet scratch of pens against paper as Peter outlined their upcoming projects.

“Now, for the media expansion,” Peter continued, flipping through his notes. “We need a fresh perspective on legal challenges for young professionals. Catherine, since you’re still relatively new to the firm, I’d like you to take the lead on drafting an article for publication.”

Catherine gave a small nod. “Of course. I’ll get started on it right away.” Peter looked pleased. “Good. Let’s aim for a first draft by next week.” She made a quick note in her planner, pushing aside the lingering thoughts of Richard Brook. Work required her full attention, and she wasn’t about to let a cryptic conversation throw her off. The meeting wrapped up smoothly, and as Catherine gathered her things, Ian gave her a slight nod before heading out.

As she returned to her desk, she reached for her phone, intending to check her notifications, but her fingers hesitated over the screen. Instead, she tucked it into her pocket and shut her laptop. She adjusted her posture, lying down on her leather black chair, having a quick nap instead of eating lunch.

By the time she arrived home, exhaustion still settled deep in her bones. The chill of the evening clung to her coat as she shut the door behind her, kicking off her heels with a sigh. The flat was quiet—too quiet.

Tossing her bag onto the couch, she pulled her phone from her pocket, running her thumb absently over the screen before unlocking it. After a beat, she reached for her phone, hesitating for only a second before typing out a message.

C: “Hai Sherlock, you busy?”
A response came almost instantly.
S: “I’m always busy. Why?”
Catherine chuckled at his response, shaking her head.
C: “Had an unusual client today. Name’s Richard Brook. Ring any bells?”
She stared at the screen, expecting a quick reply. Instead, the typing indicator blinked for a moment, then disappeared. Seconds stretched.

S: “No. Why?”
C: “Weird dude who knows too much about me, kind of scary. Thought it might be one of your ‘clients’, LOL.”
S: “Describe him.”
Her fingers were hovering over the keyboard before she started typing, the flash back of Richard Brook's appearance started to appear.

C: “Dark hair, sharp suit, unsettlingly composed. About John’s height, spoke like everything was pre-scripted.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
S: “Never heard of him.”
Catherine frowned.
C: “Alright, thank you.”

She locked her phone and set it beside her, but the unsettled feeling remained. Who the hell was he? And more importantly—what did he want? Outside, the city moved on, unaware of the quiet storm brewing in her mind. But Catherine knew better. Richard Brook wasn’t just a peculiar client. She had a feeling this was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

A week had flown by in a blur of cases and meetings, leaving Catherine too drained to check in with her mum or even reply to anyone's messages. So when Sunday finally arrived, she took full advantage of it—buried under her duvet, blissfully unaware of the time.

The flat was quiet, save for the occasional hum of traffic outside. The warmth of her bed wrapped around her like a cocoon, shielding her from the exhaustion that had weighed her down all week. Then, her phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Relentlessly. Groaning, she fumbled for it on her nightstand, barely cracking an eye open as she unlocked the screen. A message from an all-too-familiar name greeted her.

S: “Get up.”
Catherine squinted at the clock. 10:24 AM. She rolled onto her side, willing herself to ignore it. But before she could drop the phone, another message came in.

S: “You’re wasting the day.”
She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face before typing a response.

C: “It’s Sunday, Sherlock. Normal people sleep in.”
S: “Boring. Get dressed.”
C: “Why?”
S: “No why. Come to Baker street. You have 10 minutes.”
C: “WHAT? There is no way I can shower, brush my teeth, find an outfit to wear, do my makeup in TEN minutes!”
S: “Don’t need makeup. 20 Minutes.”

She let out an exasperated groan, flopping back onto her pillow. Twenty minutes. Knowing Sherlock, he probably meant that literally. Reluctantly, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stretched. She hadn’t seen him in a while—hadn’t even had time to think about him, with everything going on. And oddly enough, she found herself curious. So she started to get ready.

It was almost eleven when Catherine arrived at Baker Street. She wore a plain light brown sweater and a black mini skirt. Her hair was tied up—a rarity for her, but she had been too lazy to comb it properly.

She knocked on the door with her right hand while her left covered a yawn. The door swung open almost instantly, revealing Sherlock. “Did you come downstairs just to open the door for me?” she asked, her voice still laced with sleep. He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on her in a way that made her shift slightly. After a beat, she frowned

“Is there something on my face?”
“No, you just look... different without your usual makeup,” he replied dryly.
Her brows shot up. “Okay, wait. Are you trying to say I look ugly without it?”
“Not hideous,” he replied.“But somewhat... stunning. I prefer your natural face.”

Catherine blinked, caught completely off guard. Catherine blinked. That was not what she had expected. From anyone, least of all him. “Oh...” she muttered, momentarily unsure how to respond. “Well. Thank you, Sherlock.” She quickly changed the subject. “Can we go upstairs now? It’s freezing out here.”

Sherlock gave a brief nod and stepped aside, allowing her to enter. They make their way to the living room, where Catherine promptly sank into the couch, looking around. “So,” she said, stretching her arms. “Why did you call me out of bed so early?”

“It’s almost noon, Catherine,” he corrected.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Why am I here, Sherlock?”
A small smirk ghosted across his lips as he sat opposite her. “Let’s play a game.”

She blinked at him, her expression skeptical. “Did you wake me up… just to play a game?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
She sighed dramatically. “Where’s John?”
“Busy. A date, apparently.”
“Of course,” she muttered. “Fine. What game?”
“A simple one. I will deduce three things about your week, and you can attempt to do the same about mine.”

Catherine frowned. “You think I’m going to lose, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
She huffed. “Fine. Go on, then.”

Sherlock leaned back, studying her with sharp, calculating eyes. “Mrs Hudson is upset this week. Either due to some external problem or, more likely, because her precious daughter hasn’t been in contact. Given that you’re here and not answering her texts, I assume it’s the second option. You have dark circles forming, which means you’ve been overworking yourself—too busy even to check in with the people around you. And finally, you tied your hair up today not out of preference, but because you couldn’t be bothered to brush it.”

Catherine crossed her arms. “Alright. That was unfairly accurate.”
“Your turn,” he prompted.
She tapped her chin, pretending to scrutinize him the way he had her. “You barely slept last night, the coffee on the kitchen table can prove that, and the way you’re more hyper than usual confirms it. Normally, you’d be enjoying solitude.” She tilted her head.

“You really look like you’re on high, Sherlock,” Catherine teased.
“Oh, what if I am?” he replied.
Catherine, thinking he was joking, teased back. “Then don’t consume too much, Sherlock.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Alright.”

“So, back to my deduction,” she continued. “I feel like you didn’t sleep last night because you were busy with your cases. You also haven’t eaten, have you? You look paler than usual—almost as pale as me.” She laughed.

Sherlock’s smirk faltered slightly. “Interesting.”
“That means I was right!” she replied.
“Coincidence,” he muttered, standing up abruptly. “Come on. You need food, and I suppose I should eat as well.”

She looked up at Sherlock, surprised. “Woah, this is the first time you’ve ever voluntarily decided to eat.”
Sherlock chuckled. “So, are you up or down for having lunch with me?”

“Of course I’m up! But where are we heading, though?”
“There’s a restaurant five streets away. Excellent Italian food,” he retorted, grabbing his coat.
“Sure,” she responded. They stepped outside, the chilly London air biting against their skin. As they walked, the grey clouds above darkened.

“I feel like it’s going to rain,” Catherine said, glancing up at the grey sky.
“Haha, nonsense. London always looks like this, Catherine,” Sherlock said dismissively.
“Sherlock… are you sure you consumed a healthy amount of coffee? Because you’re not acting like usual,” she looked slightly up at the men at her left, confused.

“Me? I’m perfectly fine. I’ll calm down after this, Catherine.”
“Right. How much have you actually had?” Catherine questioned.
Sherlock glanced at her briefly, as if debating whether to tell the truth. “Maybe three cups of coffee. And a touch of chemicals.”
Catherine groaned, running a hand down her face. “Unbelievable.”
“I find myself quite believable too.” He mused for a second before adding, “Perhaps a bit too perceptive at the moment.”
His gaze flickered—just briefly—to her lips. So quick she might have missed it if she weren’t used to noticing details.
Catherine opened her mouth to retort, but for once, words failed her.

As they reached the restaurant, a waiter greeted them at the entrance, leading them to a small but elegant table by the window. The scent of garlic, simmering tomatoes, and freshly baked bread filled the air, making Catherine’s stomach growl in anticipation.

The waiter handed them menus and left them to decide. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against the table. Catherine glanced around, taking in the rustic charm of the place—wooden beams, shelves stacked with wine bottles, the soft hum of Italian music playing in the background.

“This place is nice,” she remarked, running her fingers along the edge of the menu. While Sherlock seemed momentarily lost in thought, his gaze drifted over the room before settling back on the menu.

“So what are you going to order, Sherlock,” Catherine looked up to the man sitting opposite her.
“Perhaps Pappardelle with White Bolognese. What about you?”
“Going with Agnolotti del Plin. Looked nice on the menu.”
“Good choice. My second favorite,” he replied, his voice carrying a trace of approval.

When the waiter returned, they repeated their orders. As they waited, Catherine, never one for prolonged silence, tilted her head slightly and spoke. “Do you ever just… enjoy someone’s company? Because as I looked through John’s blog and thought about how long we’ve known each other, I feel like you’re always alone.”

Sherlock, who had just taken a sip of water, paused mid-motion. His fingers rested lightly against the glass as he looked at her, his expression unreadable. For a fleeting moment, something unfamiliar flickered across his face—an almost imperceptible hesitation.

He placed the glass down, exhaling through his nose. “People are… predictable. Patterns, habits, routines—they all follow the same structure. That predictability can be useful, but it rarely makes for enjoyable company.”

Catherine narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. “So, what? You tolerate people out of necessity? That’s a bit depressing, even for you.”
His lips curled slightly, a ghost of amusement in his expression. “‘Tolerate’ is a strong word. I observe. I analyze. There’s a difference.”
She studied him for a moment, then leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “And yet, here you are. Sitting in a restaurant. With me,” she smiled.

Their conversation was interrupted as the waiter returned with their dishes, the enticing aroma of freshly made pasta filling the space between them. But as Catherine picked up her fork, she couldn’t shake the feeling that, for once, she had managed to catch Sherlock Holmes off guard.

After paying for their meal, Catherine and Sherlock stepped out of the restaurant, the crisp air wrapping around them. The streets of London glistened faintly under the streetlights, the clouds above threatening rain.
“We should probably hurry before it starts pouring,” Catherine mused, pulling her coat tighter around her.

Sherlock, however, showed no urgency. Instead, he simply started walking, his hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze shifting lazily over the emptying streets.
Catherine sighed, falling into step beside him. “Do you ever think of normal human comfort?”

Sherlock hummed, considering her words. Then, without hesitation, he shrugged off his coat and handed it to her.
She blinked, caught off guard. “Are you actually being thoughtful, or is this another social experiment?”
“Would it make a difference?” he asked, his voice infuriatingly neutral.

Catherine was speechless by his word, she accepted the coat. It was warm, carrying the faint scent of coffee and something distinctly Sherlock. They walked in silence for a while, until the inevitable happened—the sky cracked open, and the rain fell in an unrelenting drizzle. Most people would have rushed for shelter, but Sherlock continued as if completely unbothered.

Catherine hesitated before following. “You do realize we’re getting soaked, right?” Sherlock barely glanced at her. “It’s just water.”
She let out a dramatic sigh. “Right, just ‘water’, but please, let's go somewhere before heading back to Baker Street.” She pulled Sherlock as she was speeding up.

They stopped at a portico of a random flat. The rain clung to her hair, making loose strands stick to her skin. She shivered slightly but found she didn’t mind. There was something oddly peaceful about the quiet streets, the way the city softened under the rain. When she turned to Sherlock, she caught him staring—not in his usual, calculating way, but with something almost contemplative, almost—fond.

“What reason this time for staring at me, Sherlock?” she asked, voice quieter than she intended.
He blinked, as if pulled from a thought. “Just checking on you.”
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “I’m fine. Just slightly wet, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Sherlock’s gaze flickered over her face, to the way raindrops traced lazy paths down her cheeks. His hand twitched slightly at his side, as if debating something, before he reached up, his fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.

Catherine froze. For all his sharp words and brilliant deductions, Sherlock Holmes was not a man of casual touches. And yet, here he was, standing in the rain, tucking her hair behind her ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. Their eyes met—suddenly, intensely. The world around them faded, the rain a mere whisper against the pavement. Sherlock’s fingers lingered just a moment too long, his touch unexpectedly gentle. Catherine’s breath hitched, her heartbeat quickening at the unexpected closeness.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The rain drummed against the pavement, the hum of the city fading into the background. They weren’t talking about anything, and yet, it felt like they were saying everything.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “We should keep walking.”
Catherine exhaled, nodding. “Yeah. Let’s go.” But even as they made their way back to Baker Street, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something unspoken lingering between them in the rain, waiting to be acknowledged.

By the time they reached Baker Street, both were thoroughly drenched, their clothes clinging to them uncomfortably. Catherine shook out her hair as they stepped inside, droplets scattering across the floor. Mrs Hudson poked her head out from the kitchen. “Oh, you poor dears! Out in that rain? Honestly, couldn’t you both have at least brought an umbrella?”
“We didn’t expect it to rain, mum,” Catherine replied while wringing out her sleeves.

Sherlock, ignoring the exchange entirely, peeled off his sodden scarf and cast it aside with practiced indifference. Catherine smirked as she slid off his coat and handed it back to him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair in such a state.”
Sherlock shot her a flat, unimpressed look, ruffling his curls in a futile attempt to restore some semblance of order. “It’s fine.”
“It’s drowned,” she corrected, tone laced with amusement.
Mrs. Hudson chuckled as she took their coats. “He does look a bit like a lost puppy, doesn’t he?”

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose. “Tea?” he asked, voice clipped. “Already on it,” Mrs. Hudson chirped before bustling back into the kitchen. Sherlock disappeared into his room momentarily, returning with a towel. Without a word, he draped it over Catherine’s shoulders and sat down on the couch, as if the gesture had been entirely unconscious, an afterthought at best.

Catherine hesitated, fingers curling around the warm fabric before pulling it tighter. “Thanks.” Sherlock didn’t respond. He sat down on the couch, steepling his fingers as he stared into the fire. She watched him in the dim glow of the firelight, the flickering shadows softening his usually sharp features. He looked—unsettled. Like the evening’s events had disturbed him just as much as they had her, though he’d rather drop dead than admit it. Finally, she broke the silence. “You know, for someone who insists he doesn’t care about people, you’re surprisingly decent at taking care of them.” Sherlock barely glanced up. “Well, thank you for the ‘compliment’, I suppose.” Catherine chuckled at his comment.

“You’re rather quick to assign blame, considering you followed me,” he continued.
Catherine eyes wide open. “Right, so now it’s my fault?”
A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “I never asked you to.” Her mouth opened to argue, but Mrs Hudson returned, setting two steaming mugs of tea on the table between them.
“There. Now, no more complaining about the rain,” she said with a pointed look at Sherlock before bustling off.

Catherine exhaled and wrapped her hands around the ceramic, warmth seeping into her fingers. The air between them still felt different—warmer, charged with something unspoken, like a thread pulled taut and waiting to snap. Sherlock’s gaze flickered to her once more, studying, dissecting, filing away whatever conclusion he’d drawn for later use. Then, without another word, he lifted the violin and resumed playing, the quiet melody weaving through the steady patter of rain against the windows.

Chapter Text

Few days have passed since the rainy evening, yet the memory of that day still remains fresh and lingering in Catherine’s mind. She kept herself busy, throwing herself into work at Sheiza Solicitors, determined to ignore the way Sherlock’s touch, however brief, had sent an odd flutter through her chest. If she worked hard enough, maybe she could stop thinking about it altogether. The firm had been particularly hectic, with new cases rolling in and deadlines piling up. Catherine found herself staying later than usual, the soft glow of her desk lamp keeping her company as she buried herself in contracts and legal briefs. It was easier to focus on work than on the confusing dynamic she had somehow fallen into with Sherlock Holmes.

“Catherine, staying late again?” Catherine looked up to see Lenora standing in the doorway, arms crossed, a curious glint in her eyes. “Oh, yeah. A lot of cases going around,” Catherine replied, stretching her neck as she turned towards Lenora. Lenora stepped inside, resting a hand on Catherine’s shoulder. “Something’s up. Spill it, Cath. We might not be best friends, but I’m always here to listen.” Catherine blinked, slightly taken aback. Lenora was someone she usually joked around with, not someone she confided in. “Well… thank you, Lenora. That means a lot.”

Lenora laughed, leaning against the wall. “Not a big deal. But seriously, what’s keeping you glued to your desk 24/7?”
Catherine hesitated before speaking, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of a document. “What if… what if a man—someone you know—had his first love run away, and now he’s… well, being nice to me? I don’t think he acts that way towards other women.” She stumbled over her words, her thoughts tangled. Lenora raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. And how long ago did this first love of his leave? Because, trust me girl, a man’s first love always hits the hardest.” “I think it was around September…” Catherine’s voice grew smaller, almost hesitant. Lenora’s eyes widened, “Woah, that man either moved on ridiculously fast or he’s just playing with your feelings. You know boys only want love if it's torture.”

Catherine groaned, running a hand down her face. “So what am I supposed to do? Move on too? I’ve only known him for two months, and yet… I already have this weird feeling about him.” Lenora gave her a knowing smirk. “You need to ask for a straight answer, not just over analyze every little thing. Also—who’s the lucky guy? I know it’s not Ian.” She playfully smacked Catherine’s shoulder. Catherine hesitated, then let out a sigh, rubbing her forehead as if confessing a crime. “It’s Sherlock…” Lenora’s mouth dropped open. “Sherlock Holmes? Oh, Cath, you are so doomed.” Catherine buried her face in her hands. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Lenora grinning. “I mean, it makes sense. Which guy in the world would follow his female friend to her company.” Catherine peeked up from her hands. “Pardon?”

Lenora shook her head. “Oh, come on, the way he looks at you like he’s constantly trying to solve a puzzle only he can understand? ”
Catherine groaned again. “That’s just how he is! He probably does the same with his roommate, John.” Lenora snorted. “Dr Watson is practically his married roommate.” Catherine exhaled slowly. “Seriously, Lenora, what should I do?” Lenora smirked. “You do nothing. Just sit back and watch him struggle.” “That is terrible advice.” Lenora laughed, crossing her arms. “Maybe. But it’s entertaining.” Catherine rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t help me at all.”

Lenora tilted her head. “Okay, fine. If you really need my advice, I’d say… test the waters. See how he reacts when you’re around. If he’s truly different with you, you’ll know.”
“Hmm… Alright, thank you, Lenora,” Catherine smiled at her. Maybe Lenora was right—maybe it was time to stop overanalyzing and just… see what happened next. Lenora gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading for the door. “Don’t work too late, okay? You deserve a break.” Catherine watched her leave, the warmth of her words lingering. As she finished up her paperwork, she glanced at the clock—7:45 PM. London’s chill was waiting for her outside, but the thought of heading straight home felt… dull.

Stepping onto the pavement, she tucked her hands into her coat pockets, inhaling the crisp air. The streets were quieter at this hour, the city humming at a slower pace. She didn’t call a cabbie for herself, instead, she headed to the left, letting her mind and leg lead her. A dimly lit bar caught her attention. The soft glow from inside, the faint hum of jazz music, something about it called to her. Plus the next day is a weekend for her to relax so why not relax now. Pushing the door open, she stepped inside, the warmth immediately settling over her. The bartender gave her a nod as she took a seat at the counter. “What can I get you?” Catherine hesitated, then smiled. “Lillet Blanc, with an orange wedge, thanks.”

As she sipped her drink, she let the atmosphere settle around her. A group at the far end of the bar caught her attention—laughing, chatting. An asian looking woman around her age noticed Catherine and waved her over.

“HEY GIRLIE, COME JOIN US!”

Catherine chuckled, taking her glass with her as she slid into an empty seat. “Hey girl, what’s your name?”
“Just call me Kelly. What about you?”
“Catherine, Cath for short. Are you all up for nonsense?”
The woman grinned. “You’re in the right place, honey.”
As the night went on, Catherine found herself genuinely enjoying their company. They talked about everything, and nothing, their laughter blending with the music pulsing through the bar. Soon enough, someone dragged her to the dance floor, and she didn’t resist.

With the bass thrumming beneath her feet and the energy of the crowd around her, she let loose, swaying to the beat. The woman from earlier danced beside her, shouting over the music. “We should keep in touch!” Catherine nodded, fumbling for her phone. “Here, put your number in!”

They exchanged numbers, the flashing lights casting fleeting glows on their faces. The woman winked. “You seem fun, girlie. We’ll definitely do this again.” “Sure things,” Catherine smirked at her. She felt lighter than she had in days. Maybe this was exactly what she needed.

By the time she left the bar, the cold air hit her like a splash of reality. She was definitely tipsy—maybe even a little drunk—but she managed to flag down a cab. The last thing she remembered before sleep overtook her was mumbling her address to the driver.

The next morning, a sharp knock echoed against the door. Sherlock stood outside, frowning as he waited. No response. He knocked again, a little firmer this time. Still nothing. Testing the doorknob, he found it unlocked. With a sigh, he stepped inside, only to be met with the sight of Catherine sprawled across the couch in last night’s clothes, her auburn hair a tangled mess. His nose wrinkled in distaste. “For God’s sake.” Without another word, he picked up her bag from where it had been carelessly abandoned and set it neatly on the table. Then, muttering under his breath, he bent down, slipping an arm under her back with the intention of moving her somewhere more appropriate.

A hand flailed in response. Sherlock barely had time to register before she smacked him squarely across the face. He blinked. Unimpressed. Adjusting his grip, he carried on, depositing her onto the bed with clinical efficiency. He straightened the pillow, pulled the blanket over her, and then—quite against his better judgement—paused. Even with her hair in disarray and her face absent of any polish, she looked… peaceful. Sherlock exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away as he made his way to the kitchen because clearly, she was going to need it.

Sherlock set the tea down on Catherine’s nightstand with practiced ease, his gaze flickering to her still form. With a quiet exhale, he turned away, stepping back into the living room. His sharp eyes instinctively scanned the space, taking in the little details that made up Catherine Hudson’s world.

A framed photo on the bookshelf caught his attention, Catherine and Mrs. Hudson, their faces lit with unrestrained laughter. His lips twitched slightly at the sight. He could see the resemblance once again, not only their features but in the warmth they both carried.

His gaze moved to the stack of books by the armrest. Some were law-related, thick and formal, but others were more telling literary-philosophy-classics, a collection of psychological horror novel “Hannibal”, books of her favourite author – Oscar Wilde, and one with a bright, ridiculous cover that seemed entirely out of place. He picked it up, flipping it over. A rom-com novel. Sherlock scoffed lightly but placed it back without comment.

A small pile of receipts and ticket stubs sat on the coffee table. From the dates, they spanned the past few months—dinners, bookstores, a few late-night taxi rides. She was a creature of habit, though the recent frequency of these small indulgences suggested… something. Distraction, perhaps? A need to escape something unresolved? He hummed thoughtfully, sinking onto the couch, hands steepled beneath his chin. Catherine Hudson was an interesting puzzle. He hadn’t quite figured out why he cared so much to solve it. A loud groan from the bedroom snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned his head slightly just as Catherine shifted beneath the blankets, a slow, pained stretch overtaking her limbs.

She let out another, more dramatic groan before mumbling, “Never drinking again…” Sherlock smirked, pushing off the couch. Leaning casually against the bedroom door frame, he crossed his arms. “Finally awake?”

Catherine jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, her bleary eyes snapping open. She blinked at him in confusion before her brows furrowed. “Why are you in my flat?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Because you didn’t lock your door. Anyone could’ve waltzed in and murdered you in your sleep.”

Catherine let out a weak laugh, immediately regretting it as pain throbbed through her skull. “I mean, I have Mr. Frasco downstairs.” Sherlock gave her a pointed look. “Yes, well, I doubt he’d be much use against the likes of Moriarty.” She groaned, rubbing her temples. “How bad do I look?”

Sherlock’s gaze flickered over her—messy hair, last night’s clothes slightly rumpled, the faint smudge of mascara she hadn’t quite managed to remove. “A disaster.” A pillow came flying in his direction. He caught it effortlessly. “You’re the worst,” Catherine muttered. “And yet, here I am, making sure you don’t choke on your own misery. I even made tea.” He gestured toward the nightstand.

Catherine followed his gaze, spotting the cup. Her expression softened—just slightly—but she masked it quickly. “Wow, Sherlock Holmes, making tea for someone else. Next thing I know, you’ll be sending out Christmas cards.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Catherine picked up the cup, taking a cautious sip. Warm, slightly sweet, perfectly brewed. Her gaze flicked back to him, standing there in her doorway, effortlessly composed despite the absurdity of the situation.

“You know,” she mused, “for someone who pretends not to care, you do a terrible job of hiding it.” Sherlock’s smirk faltered for just a second, but then, as always, he deflected. “Drink your tea before you decide to be philosophical.” Catherine chuckled, shaking her head as she took another sip. “Whatever you say, Sherlock.”

Catherine took another slow sip of her tea, sighing as the warmth seeped through her. The headache still lingered, but at least the nausea had faded. Sherlock remained leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with that ever-present, calculating gaze.

She set the cup down with a clink and narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not just standing there for decoration, are you?”
Sherlock smirked. “That depends. Are you planning on being useful today, or should I prepare for an afternoon of your theatrics?”

Catherine groaned and flopped back onto her pillows. “Sherlock, I just woke up from alcohol. I am not in the mood to entertain you.”
He ignored her protest entirely. “I was going to invite you out.”
That caught her attention. She propped herself up on her elbows, raising an eyebrow. “Out? As in… out?” Sherlock sighed. “Yes, Catherine. Outside. Amongst other human beings. I assume you’re familiar with the concept?”

Catherine ignored the jab, too intrigued to be annoyed. “What’s the catch?” “No catch,” he said, stepping fully into the room. “You’ve been working late, drinking excessively, and—according to Mrs. Hudson—ignoring your mother’s calls. You need air.”
Catherine let out a dry laugh. “You sound like a concerned parent.”
Sherlock gave her a flat look. “Hardly.”
She studied him for a moment, then grinned. “So, what I’m hearing is… you want me to spend the day with you.”
Sherlock opened his mouth, then promptly closed it, clearly displeased with how she’d phrased it. “Think of it as fieldwork. I have observations to make. You might prove useful.”

Catherine smirked. “You just don’t want to be alone.”
Sherlock gave her a flat look. “Get dressed, Catherine.”
She saluted lazily before dragging herself out of bed. “Alright, alright. Give me an hour.”
“Thirty minutes.”
“An hour,” she shot back.

Sherlock huffed but didn’t argue. He headed back to the living room, taking a seat on her couch while she got ready. He pulled out his phone, scrolling mindlessly, but his eyes flickered now and then toward the bookshelf he’d perused earlier.

Fifty minutes later, not that he was counting, Catherine reappeared, looking significantly more put together. She’d swapped last night’s outfit for something casual but stylish: Black turtleneck, blue tight jeans, a long brown coat, scarf to match. She ran a hand through her still-damp hair.

Sherlock gave her a once-over, then nodded in approval. “Acceptable.” Catherine rolled her eyes but grinned. “Glad to know I meet your absurdly high standards.” Catherine followed Sherlock through the bustling streets of London, still unsure how exactly she had been roped into this.

“You’re seriously telling me that you, Sherlock Holmes, have voluntarily decided to go shopping?” Catherine asked as they strolled through London’s streets.
Sherlock barely spared her a glance. “I need a new suit.”
She let out a mock gasp. “A new suit? But I feel like you’ve worn the same damn coat for years, and now it’s insufficient?”?”
Sherlock sighed, long-suffering. “Would you rather return home and sleep off your hangover?”
“No, no. I’m invested now. This is historic.”

They entered a high-end boutique, the scent of expensive cologne and polished wood hitting Catherine instantly. Sherlock strode ahead, already scanning the racks with clinical precision. A well-dressed sales assistant approached them with a professional smile.

“Good afternoon, sir. How can I assist you today?”

Sherlock barely spared them a glance. “You had a row with your partner this morning. Most likely about finances, given your hesitation when handling the last customer’s payment. You’ve been working overtime to compensate, though you despise this job. You’ve been looking for a way out—” he narrowed his eyes slightly— “but it’s improbable you’ll find one before the end of the year.”

The assistant’s expression tightened. Catherine’s eyes widened. “Oh, for the love of—” she hissed, seizing Sherlock’s arm and dragging him aside before the assistant could verbally eviscerate him. “Do you ever consider filtering what you say?”

Sherlock looked at her blankly. “Why would I? It was correct.”
“Yes, but just because something’s true doesn’t mean people want to hear it!” She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. “You are lucky they didn’t slap you.”

Sherlock appeared wholly unbothered. “I fail to see how a simple observation warrants physical violence.”
Catherine scoffed. “Right. If that’s how you want to play it, you are officially at my mercy.”
His eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
She grinned, all teeth. “Meaning you’re trying something on. My choice.”
His expression darkened. “Absolutely not.”

Before he could protest, she was already rifling through the racks, her fingers skimming over various styles. Then she saw it—a sleek, black leather jacket. It was effortlessly cool, the exact opposite of Sherlock’s usual polished suits and tailored coats.

She grabbed it and turned to him. “Here. Try this.”
Sherlock regarded the jacket as if it had personally insulted him. “No.”
Catherine smirked. “Either this, or we go back to that assistant and let them pick something truly hideous for you because of your honesty that offends her.”
He eyed her, then the jacket, before snatching it from her hands with an irritated sigh. “Fine.”
Catherine barely contained her laughter as he stalked off to the fitting room.

Sherlock emerged from the fitting room a few minutes later, looking good in the leather jacket. Catherine blinked. “Well,” she started, tilting her head, “that’s… unfair.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What is?”
She gestured vaguely at him. “You. Looking weirdly good in that.”
He scoffed. “That’s hardly a relevant observation.”

Catherine ignored him, circling him with a critical eye. “See? It doesn’t kill you to step out of your comfort zone.”
Sherlock took off the leather jacket, he was about to argue when—

“Oi!”
Both turned as a furious-looking man stormed towards them.
Catherine’s stomach sank. Oh no. Sherlock blinked. “Ah. That would be the guy I observed with his wife last week.”
Catherine grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve. “Oh, you definitely said something bad, now, run.”

For once, Sherlock didn’t argue.

They bolted, ducking behind a display as the man searched for them. Catherine slapped his arm. “You just had to comment on the wife, didn’t you?” Sherlock, slightly winded, adjusted his coat. “She was unfaithful. He deserved to know.”
Catherine gaped at him. “Not. Your. Business.”

By some miracle, they managed to escape the boutique without further incident. Catherine hauled Sherlock into a quiet café, ordering them both coffee while he sulked in a corner seat.

She slid his drink across the table and smirked. “That was fun.” Sherlock gave her a flat look. “I’m delighted my near-murder proved entertaining for you.” Catherine laughed, stirring her coffee. “Oh, come on. Admit it—you had fun.” He scoffed but said nothing. For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the café’s warmth a stark contrast to the chaos of earlier. Catherine watched as Sherlock’s fingers tapped absently against his cup, his gaze drifting towards the window.

“You used to come here often, didn’t you?” she mused.
Sherlock blinked, looking at her properly. “What makes you think that?” She shrugged. “You seem comfortable. Not like earlier, when you were suffering through shopping hell.”

Sherlock exhaled, fingers tightening slightly around his cup. “My mother used to bring me here with Mycroft.” His voice was quieter now, distant. “She’d get tea. He’d get coffee. I’d get the water. It was… routine.”

Catherine tilted her head, watching him carefully. “Sounds nice.”
Sherlock’s gaze flickered back to Catherine as she absentmindedly traced the rim of her cup.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured without looking up.
Sherlock blinked, tilting his head slightly. “No, I’m observing since you did a deduction on me just now.”
Catherine huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Right.” She leaned back, watching him for a second longer than necessary before draining the last of her tea. “We should go buy you a new suit right now.” Sherlock nodded, standing as she grabbed her coat. But as they stepped outside, he found himself glancing at her again, just for a second too long.

Chapter Text

Monday always felt like an endless loop, an inescapable cycle that dragged her back to reality after a good weekend. No matter how much she tried to savor her Sundays, Monday always won. The warm water did little to shake off her sleep-deprived state. She absentmindedly replayed moments from the weekend, 7the shopping trip, Sherlock’s leather jacket disaster, the quiet conversation in the café, the suit he customized because they can’t find a good one.

Catherine shook her head violently. Nope. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about him. After pulling on a white blouse and a navy blue pencil skirt, she made herself a cup of coffee. It was terrible. She drank it anyway. By the time she reached Sheiza Solicitors, the office was already buzzing with the usual Monday energy—phones ringing, heels clicking against polished floors, the printer making a horrible screeching noise in the background.

Lenora spotted her the second she walked in.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” she teased, sipping her overpriced latte.
Catherine narrowed her eyes. “It’s 8:55.”
“Exactly,” Lenora grinned. “Five minutes late than usual.”
Catherine laughed. “Let me guess, you’re about to say something incredibly annoying.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Lenora leaned against the desk, smirking. “So… how was your weekend?”
“Fine.”
“That’s it? Just ‘fine’?” Lenora stared at her, suspicious.
Catherine rolled her eyes and made her way to her desk. “I’ll tell you later, bye, Lenora.”

When she settled her stuff down, a knock sounded against the door. It was Peter, one of the senior partners, standing with a folder in hand.
“Hudson, got a case for you,” he said, placing the file on her desk. Catherine straightened. “What’s the situation?” Peter sighed. “British-Chinese family business dispute. Long-standing restaurant, second-generation owner wants to sell, but the older family members are resisting. Could get messy.” Catherine flipped open the file, scanning the names inside. Her eyes landed on one.

Kelly Wong.

Her brows shot up. The name is the exact same with the girl that she met on Saturday night. But Catherine thought to herself, maybe it was just another Asian girl who had the name Kelly.
“Alright Peter, thank you.” “Your expertise in Chinese legal matters is exactly why we’re assigning this to you. The clients prefer someone who understands their background.” Peter said. Catherine nodded. “Understood.” Peter gave her a curt nod before walking off. Catherine stepped into the sleek, glass-walled conference room, the weight of the case already settling on her shoulders. The scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of old paper and polished wood. She smoothed down her blouse, flipping open the folder in her hands as she approached the table. Three people were already seated—a middle-aged man in a dark grey suit, an older woman with silver-threaded hair, and a younger woman dressed in a structured blazer, her dark eyes scanning the room with sharp curiosity. Catherine barely had a second to process the meeting before she recognized the younger woman.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Kelly. The same Kelly she had met just two nights ago at a bar. Kelly, for her part, looked equally stunned. Her dark eyes widened, and for a split second, the room's tense atmosphere cracked under the weight of pure disbelief. “Holy shit.”

Catherine closed her eyes briefly. Professionalism, Catherine. Keep it together. When she opened them again, Kelly’s lips were twitching, barely containing a grin. “Cath?” Kelly leaned forward, looking at her like she had just won the lottery. “You’re my lawyer?” Catherine cleared her throat, straightening in her chair. “Miss Hudson,” she corrected. “And yes.” She exhaled sharply. “Nice to meet you here, Miss Wong.”

A beat of silence.
Then Kelly burst into laughter.
Her father—Mr. Wong, the primary owner of the restaurant—shot her a disapproving frown. “珂媛, 这很严肃.” (KeYuan, this is serious.) Kelly waved him off, still grinning. “Sorry, sorry. Just… What are the odds? Last time I saw you, we were throwing back drinks, and now you’re going to tell my family whether or not I can sell the restaurant?”

Catherine pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes, that’s exactly what’s happening.” The older woman—likely Kelly’s grandmother—eyed Catherine with scrutiny, her sharp gaze flickering over her like she was measuring her worth. “You studied in China?” the woman asked suddenly, her voice steady but laced with curiosity. Catherine straightened, nodding. “Yes, at China University of Political Science and Law. I specialized in international law, including business disputes within Chinese expatriate families.” Mr. Wong still looked skeptical. “But you are not Chinese.”
Catherine held his gaze, unfazed. “I may not be, but I understand the legal and cultural complexities involved. That’s why I was assigned to your case.”
A tense silence stretched over the table. Kelly’s grandmother nodded approvingly. “那还不错.” (That’s not bad.) Kelly smirked, elbowing Catherine playfully. “Look at you, impressing my 奶奶.” (Grandma)

Catherine shot her a warning look. “Miss Wong.” Kelly winked. Catherine turned back to the rest of the family, sliding a notepad in front of her. “Let’s start from the beginning. Mr. Wong, can you walk me through the specifics of the dispute?" As the conversation unfolded, it became clearer why this case was more than just a business disagreement.

Mr. Wong had taken over his family-owned restaurant in London, which had been running for over 40 years. Kelly, as part of the younger generation, wanted to sell the restaurant and move into corporate finance, something that deeply clashed with her family’s expectations. The older family members viewed the restaurant as a legacy, not just a business. They saw Kelly’s decision as disrespectful—as if she was abandoning her roots.

Catherine took careful notes, asking pointed questions while maintaining a neutral tone. But beneath the surface, she could feel the weight of the conversation pressing on Kelly’s shoulders. It wasn’t just about money. It was about identity, obligation, and family loyalty. At one point, Kelly crossed her arms, shifting in her seat. “Look, I get it, okay? I love this restaurant. But I also don’t want to be stuck running it forever. This isn’t what I want for my life.” Her dad let out a sharp breath. “That is the problem, Kelly. You think this is just about what you want.” The grandmother remained silent, watching them both with knowing eyes. Catherine glanced at Kelly, seeing the tension in her posture, the frustration, the guilt. She had a feeling that this wasn’t the first time this argument had happened.

After an hour of intense discussion, they finally wrapped up, agreeing to continue negotiations the next day. As the family gathered their things, Mr. Wong spoke to Catherine directly. “We are trusting you to handle this with care. This is not just business. It is our family.” Catherine nodded. “I understand. I’ll make sure all options are carefully considered.” When they left, Kelly lingered behind, waiting until the door shut before letting out an exaggerated groan. “Oh my God. I need a drink.” Catherine let out a tired chuckle, stacking her papers neatly. “Your family is intense.” Kelly flopped dramatically into a chair. “Tell me about it.” She let out a sigh. “Thanks for not making me look completely incompetent in front of them.” Catherine smirked, tucking her pen behind her ear. “Well, you are selling your cultural heritage for profit, so…” Kelly gasped. “Excuse me?!” Catherine laughed, shaking her head. “I’m joking.” Kelly huffed. “Yeah, yeah. You know, you’re actually a lot meaner when you’re sober.” Catherine raised an eyebrow. “And you’re a lot more tolerable when you’re not in the middle of a legal battle with your own family.”

Kelly grinned. “So what you’re saying is, we need to drink more often.”
Catherine rolled her eyes but found herself smiling. “You’re crazy.”
Kelly grabbed her bag, stretching as she stood up. “Well, since we’re basically friends now, I’m texting you later. Drinks. No work talk.”
Catherine exhaled, shaking her head. “I got work, kelly.”
Kelly saluted her. “Right, then this Saturday, see ya.” And with that, she walked out, leaving Catherine to wonder if maybe—just maybe—this ridiculous friendship was exactly what she needed.
By the time noon rolled around, Catherine had barely made a dent in her workload. Her brain felt fried from legal jargon, and the only thing keeping her from passing out at her desk was the promise of food. Unfortunately, food also meant Lenora. And Lenora meant interrogation.

Catherine barely had time to grab her coat before Lenora appeared beside her, smirking like she had all the time in the world. “So, are we finally going to discuss your mysterious weekend, or are you going to make me suffer in suspense?” Catherine sighed. “If I say nothing happened, will you let me eat in peace?” Lenora gasped. “Absolutely not. Now let’s go, spill.” They grabbed a table at a small café down the street, ordering their usual—Lenora with her ridiculous caramel latte, Catherine with her strong black coffee. Lenora leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Okay, let’s start with the basics. What did you do?"

Catherine took a sip of her coffee, pretending to think. “Worked. Slept. Woke up. Worked again.”
Lenora narrowed her eyes. “Cath.”
Catherine exhaled dramatically. “Fine. I went to a bar Saturday night.”
Lenora blinked. “A bar? Without me?”
Catherine smirked. “Didn’t think you could keep up.”
Lenora scoffed. “Excuse you—” then she stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening. “Wait. Did you go alone?”
Catherine shrugged. “Not for long.”
Lenora sat up straighter. “What do you mean?” Catherine hesitated, debating whether or not to tell her. But there was no escaping Lenora once she got curious. “I made some new friends.”
Lenora raised an eyebrow. “Define friends.”
Catherine sighed. “A girl named Kelly invited me to join her group. We drank, we danced, we exchanged numbers, and now she’s apparently a part of my life.”
Lenora grinned. “I knew you had it in you to make friends outside of your work bubble.”
Catherine rolled her eyes. “She is my client right now, so still in my work bubble.”
Lenora eyes wide open “Damn, destiny sure is really a thing.”
Lenora smirked. “And what does Sherlock think about your new friend?”
Catherine almost choked on her coffee. “Why would Sherlock care?”
Lenora shrugged, sipping her latte “Because he care about you”
Catherine glared. “Lenora.”
Lenora grinned. “Oh, I’m enjoying this.”
Catherine shook her head, exhaling. “Can we not analyze my interactions with Sherlock?”
Lenora pretended to think. “Mmm… no. But fine, I’ll let you eat. For now.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, but smiled. As much as she wanted to deny it, talking to Lenora did make things feel a little less complicated.

By Tuesday morning, Catherine was fully back in work mode. She arrived early, preparing for another tense meeting with Kelly’s family. Kelly was already there, arms crossed, watching her father and grandmother with something between resignation and defiance. Catherine cleared her throat. “Good morning, everyone.” Mr. Wong gave her a curt nod, his expression unreadable. Kelly offered her a mock salute before straightening up. Catherine set down her file and pulled out her notepad. “Before we move forward, I want to clarify everyone’s expectations.” Kelly exhaled. “My expectations are simple: I don’t want to be forced into running a business I never wanted.” Her father’s jaw tightened. “And ours are equally simple: We do not abandon family.” Catherine sensed the tension immediately. She leaned forward slightly, keeping her voice steady. “I understand both perspectives, which is why we need to consider a compromise. Selling the restaurant doesn’t have to mean losing it entirely. There are ways to ensure the family retains a stake while allowing Kelly to pursue her own career.”

Her grandmother finally spoke. “Explain.”
Catherine pulled out a legal document and turned it toward them. “One option is partial buyout, where Kelly sells her share to the family instead of an outside investor. That way, she gains financial independence while ensuring the restaurant remains under family control.”
Kelly tilted her head. “Would that even work?”
Catherine nodded. “It’s done all the time in family-run businesses. The key is setting clear terms so neither side feels slighted.”
Her father’s expression didn’t soften, but Catherine noticed the slight shift—the moment of hesitation.

“I’ll need time to think about it,” he finally said. Catherine nodded. “Of course. We can reconvene later this week to discuss the terms in more detail.” The meeting wrapped up, and as Mr. Wong and his mother exited, Kelly lingered behind. She shook her head in disbelief. “Did you just mediate my family like we were at some international summit?” Catherine smirked. “It’s what I do.” Kelly grinned. “You’re scary good at it. No wonder you drink.” Catherine laughed. “Are you complimenting me or insulting me?” Kelly slung her bag over her shoulder. “Little of both. As they walked toward the lobby, Kelly turned to her. “So… we're still on for drinks this weekend?” Catherine hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. No work talk.” Kelly mock-zipped her lips. “Scout’s honor.” Catherine rolled her eyes, but as she watched Kelly walk away, she realized something—despite the stress, she didn’t mind this case as much as she thought she would.

Maybe fate was playing along after all.

Chapter Text

After a long weekend that full-filled with work, it’s finally Saturday. Catherine stacked the last of her documents into a neat pile, stretching her arms with a relieved sigh. A message notification pops out. She looked at it and put down the document.

S: “Free?”
C: “Nope sorry :( had a date.”

Somehow he didn’t reply asap. Then, without waiting for a reply, she tossed her phone onto her desk and grabbed a stack of documents. She still had to double-check something with Ian before leaving. Her phone could wait.

By the time she returned ten minutes later, another message had appeared.

S: “Ian?”

She blinked, amusement curling at the edges of her lips. She hadn’t even said Ian’s name. Interesting. She grabbed her bag, typing as she walked out.

C: “Why do you assume it’s Ian?”
The typing indicator blinked, then stopped. Then blinked again.
S: “Who then?”
C: “Going to club with my new friend XD”

Catherine slipped her phone into her pocket, shaking her head with a smirk. Sherlock left her on seen, which is not surprising. Outside, the London air was crisp, the remnants of autumn clinging stubbornly before winter took full control. She walked down the street, making her way to the bar. By the time she arrived, the music was already spilling out onto the pavement. She could feel the bass vibrating through her heels as she stepped inside, the dim, neon-lit atmosphere wrapping around her like a familiar embrace.

It didn’t take long to spot Kelly, she was in the middle of the dance floor. However Kelly stood near the bar, sipping her drink, looking entirely different from a few days ago. She had transformed into something straight out of Tumblr. Her hair, which is naturally black, was now ruby red, and her outfit? Distressed red shorts, a graphic tee, layered belts, studded everything—she even had those slouchy socks with boots.

“Cath!” Kelly weaved her way through the crowd, pulling Catherine into a half-hug. “You made it! I was worried you’d be too busy being all professional.”
Catherine's eyes are still raking over her. “What—what the hell happened to you?”
Kelly laughed, tossing her hair dramatically. “Do you love it? Be honest.”
“I—” Catherine gestured vaguely. “I leave you alone for three days, and you go full Tumblr grunge? Who even inspired this?”

Kelly smirked. “Honestly? I just felt like a change. And I thought, why not go all out?” She fixed her perfectly cut bangs, the club lights catching on the lighter strands. “Figured I’d try something new as I get rid of that family business.”

Catherine shook her head, laughing. “I mean, I respect the commitment, but damn.”
“As long I feel fantastic.” Kelly lifted her drink, the liquid catching in the flashing neon. “To reinvention, babe.”
Catherine clinked her glass against Kelly’s, shaking her head in amusement. “You’re insane.”
“And yet you still love me,” Kelly teased, before grabbing her hand. “Now, enough talking. We’re dancing.”

The club pulsed around them, alive with movement and music. A deep bass thrummed through the floor, shaking beneath their feet, the air thick with heat and the faint sting of alcohol. Neon lights sliced through the darkness, illuminating the sea of bodies moving in sync with the beat.

Catherine let herself sink into the moment, letting go of the weight of the week, of work, of everything outside this chaotic, intoxicating space. She moved easily, her body following the rhythm, hips swaying, arms lifting, the music washing over her in waves. Kelly danced beside her, wild and unbothered, hair flying as she laughed.

Then the DJ switched tracks—Tik Tok by Ke$ha.
Kelly gasped dramatically, grabbing Catherine’s wrist. “Oh my God! This was the anthem. We have to go feral.” Catherine agreed, allowing herself to be pulled deeper into the crowd. She didn’t fight it—why should she? The beat was infectious, the moment electric. She tossed her head back, eyes fluttering shut as she danced, completely lost in it all. The flashing lights, the rush of the bass in her chest, the heat of bodies pressing around her—it was easy to forget the rest of the world here. To let everything else blur into the background.

Then, of course, the moment had to be ruined. Her phone in her pocket buzzed. It was one message from Sherlock, she ignored the message completely as she was enjoying the moment. A minute later, another buzz. Another text. She chose to ignore it once again.

And then—
“Turn around.”
Her breath caught. A slow chill ran down her spine, the rush of alcohol and music no longer enough to drown out the sudden shift in the air. She turned. And there he was. Sherlock Holmes stood behind her, cool and composed. The neon lights cast sharp shadows across his face, his coat stark against the dim club atmosphere. He didn’t move. He didn’t have to. The weight of his stare was enough. “What the hell are you doing here? Did you stalk me all the way?”

“I deduced.”
“Same thing!” She waved a hand around, exasperated. “You’re not exactly the ‘clubbing’ type, Sherlock. How did you even find me?”
“I checked bars near your office. Only logical to start there.” His eyes flicked briefly to the dance floor, then back to her, expression unreadable. “You weren’t particularly difficult to spot.”

Catherine crossed her arms. “Well, congrats, detective. You found me. Now go home.” Before he could reply, Kelly appeared beside her, eyes flicking between them. “Uh—who’s this?”
Catherine sighed. “Kelly, Sherlock. Sherlock, Kelly.”
Kelly raised an eyebrow. “Sherlock? The detective guy?”
Catherine groaned. “Uh-huh.”
But Kelly wasn’t done. She clapped her hands together, her drunken excitement reigniting. “Okay, well, since you’re here, you might as well join us. Ever danced to Ke$ha before?”
Sherlock’s face remained blank. “No.”
“Great, first time for everything.” She grabbed his arm, but he barely budged, completely unfazed.
“I’ll pass,” he said smoothly while breaking away.
Catherine smirked. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
He gave her a slow, measured look. “I choose not to.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Kelly relented, dragging Catherine back to the dance floor. “Suit yourself, detective.”

Sherlock stayed by the bar, unmoving, his sharp gaze fixed on her. His presence here was a contrast to the neon-lit chaos surrounding him, a still point in the spinning world. He watched her closely—not in a way that suggested judgement, but something quieter. Observant.

Catherine danced without hesitation, her hair catching the light as she laughed, throwing her head back when Kelly twirled her. He noted the way her eyes sparkled under the flashing colours, the tension in her shoulders unwinding as she surrendered to the moment. It was rare to see her like this—unguarded. Free.

She looked… happy. Sherlock’s fingers tapped against his glass, his mind running through the details like pieces of a puzzle. He had expected resistance when he showed up, annoyance even, but there was something else in her expression when she saw him. Surprise, yes. Maybe a hint of something softer, fleeting before it was masked by exasperation.

Minutes passed, stretching into what felt like hours. Catherine and Kelly eventually stumbled back towards him, breathless and flushed from the exertion. They slid into the booth across from him, Kelly leaning heavily into Catherine’s side, her grin hazy with alcohol. “You know,” Kelly murmured, voice slow and sentimental, “I really have to thank you, Cath.” Catherine, still catching her breath, turned to her with a slight frown. “For what?” Kelly exhaled, rolling the glass between her fingers. “For helping me break free from… all that family business bullshit.” Her voice wavered slightly. “I feel like I can finally breathe, you know?”

Catherine went quiet, her fingertips tracing the rim of her glass.
Sherlock didn’t move, but his gaze sharpened, his attention fixed on her. He could see the shift in her posture, the way her shoulders tensed, the slight downturn of her lips. He had seen that look before—the kind that belonged to someone who had spent years carrying things they never asked to hold.

“I get it,” Catherine said eventually, her voice quieter now. Kelly looked at her. “Yeah?” Catherine let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “My dad was never around. Not really. Too busy with his drug business. Mum was always alone. They were never… I always live under pressure.” She trailed off, staring into the swirling liquid in her glass.

Sherlock set his drink down, the faintest furrow between his brows.
He had gathered fragments of her past before—mentions in passing, things she let slip when she wasn’t thinking about it. But now, in the dim glow of the club, she was offering something unfiltered, something real.

He didn’t speak. He simply listened.
And Catherine, for once, let herself be seen.

Kelly hummed in response, her head resting lazily against Catherine’s shoulder. “Only child problems, I see,” she muttered, her voice thick with exhaustion and alcohol. “Guess that’s why we get each other, huh?” Catherine exhaled, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Sherlock remained silent, his gaze still trained on her. He wasn’t used to seeing her like this—unguarded, her usual sharp wit dulled by fatigue and something deeper, something heavier. It was… unsettling. He had always known Catherine to be enthusiastic, all passion and relentless energy, but in this moment, she looked like the embers left behind. Kelly yawned, stretching her arms dramatically. “Alright, alright. I don’t know about you two, but I’m dead tired. I say we call it a night before I pass out right here.” She patted Catherine’s cheek affectionately before rising to her feet, swaying slightly. “I’m grabbing a cab. You two sort yourselves out.”

Catherine barely had time to react before Kelly pressed a kiss to her cheek and disappeared into the crowd. She sighed, rubbing her temple. “She’s going to text me tomorrow about how hungover she is, I just know it.” Sherlock tilted his head. “And you're gonna laugh at her.” A beat of silence passed between them, the thumping bass of the club now more distant, the chaos of the night slowly ebbing away. Catherine glanced at him. “You never answered my question, you know.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What question?”
“Why are you here?” she asked again, quieter this time. He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flickered over her, as if debating how much to say. Eventually, he leaned back slightly, exhaling. “I was… curious.” “Mr Sherlock Holmes curious about clubbing? HA!”
“You're definitely drunk right now, don't you, Catherine?”

Catherine snorted, tipping her head back slightly. “Of course not,” she drawled, though the smirk tugging at her lips made it hard to tell if she was being serious. He didn’t argue. Instead, he flagged down a cab, his movements precise and matter-of-fact. “Let’s go, Catherine.” She wanted to protest—really, she did—but the exhaustion was creeping in, and the warmth of the club was making her eyelids heavy. The last thing Catherine remembered is that she was sinking into the cab seat, then her head relaxed slightly to the side of Sherlock.

The following morning, she was waking up in her bed, the familiar comfort of her sheets wrapped around her. Blinking groggily, she turned onto her side, squinting at the dim light filtering through her curtains. Her headache—nothing unbearable, but enough to remind her of the night before. She rubbed her temple, groaning softly. She looked around, seeing her coat and bag were placed nicely at the rack. She searches her phone, finding it at the nightstand on her left, with a paper note under it. She flip over the paper, just to find out Sherlock left a comment

“You are a bad drinker.”

She stared at the note for a moment, then huffed out a quiet laugh. Of course he’d leave something like this—blunt, to the point, and just condescending enough to be irritating.

Dragging herself out of bed, she padded towards the kitchen, still in last night’s clothes. As she poured herself a glass of water, her phone buzzed on the counter.

K: “Girl, are you still alive?”
Catherine smirked, taking a sip before replying.
C: “Barely, you?”
K: “Hungover as hell. Also, I have questions >:) ?”
C: “What :0?”
K: “Why did Sherlock come and find you? Is he your boyfriend or something?”

Catherine nearly choked on her water. She set the glass down with a sharp clink, staring at the message as if it had personally offended her.

C: “HELLO????? WHERE DID THAT COME FROM???”
K: “He went to a club just to find you. What am I supposed to think? XD”
Catherine groaned, running a hand through her hair. Kelly had a point, unfortunately. It was weird. Sherlock Holmes, a man who barely tolerated social interaction on a good day, had voluntarily stepped into a nightclub. For what, exactly? To satisfy his so-called curiosity? Won’t buy that not gonna lie.

C: “He’s NOT my boyfriend. He’s in the club doing… I don’t know what.”
K: “Uh-huh. Well, good luck, babe!”
C: “Whatever, I’m going back to bed.”
K: “Sure~”

Catherine locked her phone with an exasperated sigh, tossing it onto the counter before rubbing her temples. The headache wasn’t as bad as before, but now she had this nonsense to deal with. She decided to take a quick shower before heading out to buy some painkillers from the drugstore.

Catherine pulled her coat tighter around herself as she stepped out of the drugstore, the cold morning air biting at her skin. The small paper bag crinkled in her grip as she made her way down the pavement, her mind still fogged from the remnants of her headache. At least she had the tablets now. A quick dose, some rest, and she’d be fine.

The walk back to her flat should have been uneventful. Just a simple errand, a quick stop at the drugstore, and then back to the comfort of her bed. But something felt off.

At first, she ignored it.
It was just the lingering headache, she told herself. Just exhaustion, the weight of last night still pressing down on her shoulders. She adjusted the strap of her bag, tucking the small paper bag of tablets against her side as she crossed the street.

Then she caught it.
A flicker of movement in a shop window reflection. A figure, lingering a little too far back. Their pace matched hers—too deliberately.

Her heartbeat drummed against her ribs, but she kept her pace measured. Panicking wouldn’t help. Maybe—maybe—it was nothing. Maybe she was being paranoid. Maybe it was just some random person walking in the same direction.

But the feeling in her gut said otherwise.
She reached her building, taking the steps two at a time. The moment she was inside, she locked the door, pressing her back against it as she exhaled.

Silence.

She swallowed, her pulse still unsteady. Slowly, she moved to the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to peer out. The street was still. No one there. She lingered for a moment, scanning every shadow, every parked car, every possible hiding place. But whoever had been following her… they were gone. But the feeling in her gut didn’t fade.