Author's Note

If you haven't read this story since Jan 5th, I recommend re-reading it. It's been heavily edited and this chapter won't make sense without the changes in the earlier ones.

DRAFT MATERIAL: NOT FOR PUBLICATION

ARTICLE TITLE: A Study In Scarlet; Cont.

AUTHOR: Jane Watson, M.D.

The frailty of genius is a fickle and ultimately unpredictable aspect of the personality. I have yet to determine precisely what circumstances will cause whatever illusion of careful calculation I possess to collapse. Neither can I begin to consider the outcomes, for I am as erratic as I am controlled. Sherlock on the other hand seems to have already reached that point of mentality. And, had I not realized that fact, I fear what madness he would've committed, as he had nothing to lose except his life.

Fable

Her limp was gone.

Miraculously, spectacularly gone, and she had no one to thank except the man standing by her side. She was surprised he had attempted to help her at all. Sherlock didn't strike her as the type to go out of his way to help someone with a problem, especially one so seemingly insignificant. It was interesting, curious that he would orchestrate this for her. But was it gone forever? Would the pain return after this adventure?

She wasn't sure.

"Sherlock." It was the worry in Mrs. Hudson's voice that gripped her attention. Immediately she and Sherlock looked at the Landlady. "What've you done?"

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Upstairs."

Sherlock glanced at Jane, and within seconds had scaled the staircase—she hot on his tracks. The sight was definitely unexpected. The entire forensic team was combing though their flat. Lestrade stood in the middle of the room, regarding the pink case still open on their cluttered coffee table. In a single sweep, she recognized their search pattern. They were looking for something—but the case was right there!

"What are you doing?" Sherlock shot, making his way to Lestrade.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."

Jane glared at him. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Anderson digging inside one of their kitchen cabinets. Donovan had to be close by, and wondered for the first time what might be the aftermath of their earlier conversation.

"You can't just break into my flat," Sherlock said angrily, waving his hand.

"You can't withhold evidence—and I didn't break in." Lestrade glanced her way before flopping down into one of the couches.

"What do you call this then?"

Lestrade shrugged. "It's a drugs bust."

She looked at Sherlock so sharply that her neck cracked. He wasn't repulsed by the idea that he could possess drugs, nor even annoyed that Lestrade had used such a poor excuse. Meaning, at one point or another he actually had possessed them. Bloody fantastic. She never would have pegged him for a junkie. Then again, the three nicotine patches should have given her a clue.

"On what grounds?" Jane shot at Lestrade. "According to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984 you need reasonable grounds for believing it necessary to search our home. You need that to get the warrant to search our flat." She folded her arms, her eyes narrowing. She had a serious problem when someone rummaged around with her property.

Lestrade actually looked a little dumbfounded, and had she been paying attention, she would have seen the way that Sherlock looked at her. "I-I know how to go about a drugs bust," Lestrade finally managed to say, having the decency to look upset that she had accused him of not.

"On what grounds?" she repeated stiffly. "I highly doubt we have been under surveillance for the amount of time required, and since we haven't even exactly moved in completely I find the intrusion rude." She glared at him. "Stop wasting time and ask Sherlock your bloody questions."

Thick tangible silence fell in the room.

"We, ah…" Lestrade fidgeted, keeping eye contact with her even though he was talking to Sherlock. "We found Rachel."

"Excellent, who is she?" If she hadn't been listening for it, she would have missed the amusement layering his voice. He was standing a little straighter, a smirk trying to take over his face.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter?" Sherlock repeated. "Why would she write her daughter's name?"

"Never mind that," Anderson piped up. "We found the case. According to someone the murderer has the case and we just found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"No—he's not," Jane snapped, turning to him.

Anderson spluttered. "A sociopath, then!"

"That's exactly the same thing." It wasn't the first time she'd heard the terms used incorrectly—though she'd never been so annoyed by it. The two terms were synonyms of each other, both used to describe the exact same type of person. And Sherlock didn't fall into that category at all – he wasn't emotionless, cruel, and he had a conscience! Yes, his logic made him appear cold and detached, but that didn't mean actually was.

"Who the hell even are you!" Anderson shouted, and he gestured toward her as his eyes went to Lestrade. "Really—"

"If you're going to insult me then at least have the decency to look at me!" Jane interrupted, her fist clenched by her side. She wasn't going to let this Anderson belittle her. He was going to listen. Realize that spouting bullshit didn't make him worth listening to.

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Anderson, shut up." Sherlock's tone had changed; it was dark, cold, missing the excitement the case had brought him. But it wasn't flat, like the way his brother would sometimes speak – missing emotion. No, this was a threat, thick with feeling that revealed the fury writhing just beneath the surface of his mask. His grip tightened slightly on her shoulder, as though asking her not to speak.

Anderson took a step back from them, finally lost for words.

"Okay, that's enough," Lestrade cleared his throat, getting to his feet and coming to stand between them. He glanced at Anderson, "Get out."

Silence.

"All of you!"

There was a sudden rustling as the team began packing up. Lestrade sighed, running a hand over his forehead. "Sorry about that," he whispered and Jane looked at him. The apology had been just for her. She wasn't ready to speak yet though, so she nodded curtly in reply.

She relaxed, and the hand suddenly lifted from her shoulder.

"Rachel's dead," Lestrade went on, now looking at Sherlock.

"How, when and why?" His voice had returned to normal. "Is there a connection? There has to be."

Lestrade shifted, looking skeptical. "Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

Jane blinked. "But—" she shook her head. "No, that doesn't make sense. There has to be a different connection."

Sure, thinking of your daughter before death was normal—but not scratching their name into the floor. She stood by her original observation. It looked more like a clue toward her killer, but how—that was the million-dollar question.

"She's trying to tell us something," Sherlock mused, moving about the room as though it would give him clarity.

Mrs. Hudson came into the living room, looking at the mass of people and the forensics team slowly making their way outside. "Isn't the doorbell working?" she asked. "Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

Sherlock wouldn't be distracted. "I didn't order a taxi. Go away." He started pacing.

"I'll take care of it," Jane said coming beside Mrs. Hudson and smiling at her.

"Oh, dear." Mrs. Hudson was scanning the room. "What are they looking for?"

"Nothing," she stepped through the door. "Just a misunderstanding." Jane scaled the staircase quickly, the sound of Sherlock shouting at Anderson carrying down to her. She felt twisted pleasure in it, and was almost sad she wasn't there to witness it.

She didn't bother putting on her coat. Outside was brisk but tolerable, and there – parked right in front of their flat – was a taxi. But the cabbie was standing outside, leaning against the side of the black car. There was something odd about his expression—

She closed the door behind her with a snap.

"We didn't order a taxi."

"You're not Sherlock Holmes." The cabbie had a true cockney accent. He was older too, with grey and white hair visible from beneath his cap.

"He didn't order one either."

"Oh, I assure you he did." He didn't smile—not really. He looked amused, but there was something off about it. It didn't look right. "Would mind fetching him for me?"

Jane didn't move.

One who hunts in a crowd. Moves without being seen.

"Its you." She realized, her eyes widening. "You're the one."

That hadn't been part of the plan. The pleasantries slid from the Cabbie's face so quickly it was like they'd never been there in the first place. It hadn't been the passenger, but the cabbie of the taxi that'd stopped outside 22 Northumberland Street. He was the serial killer!

And she had a gun.

Without pausing to think, she reached behind her shirt and grabbed it, cocking the pistol as she whipped it around to point at him. "Don't move!" She shouted, taking a step back. "Sherlock!"

"He didn't tell me about you." He actually looked annoyed.

"Who did?"

He didn't respond.

"SHERLOCK!" she yelled again.

"Something wrong, Jane?" But it wasn't Sherlock. Panicked, Jane turned to tell Mrs. Hudson to go back inside—to get Sherlock and Lestrade, but she'd made a fatal error. The instant she'd broken eye contact, the cabbie moved. It was over in a manner of seconds – he'd grabbed her gun, twisting it around to point at her head.

"Get Sherlock," the cabbie agreed. "If I see police, she dies."

Fable

Jane Watson.

He had disregarded the idea that the woman could possess an ounce of deductive reasoning – after all, he'd yet to encounter another who had. Except Mycroft, of course, who at times managed to best even him with his cold calculations. But Jane, a recent returnee from Afghanistan had boasted no such talent. She was plain yet unyielding, perfectly ordinary but too guarded, as though she walked in constant fear of being discovered.

She had peaked his interest.

The fact that she appeared to harbor no physical attraction to him, or males in general didn't lessen his intrigue. It did little to increase it as well. The prospect of love held no interest for him; in fact he found the idea laughable. How could he stand it? How would they? He saw everything. They would be unable to hide anything from him, whether it be an affair or a trip to the grocery store. But he didn't decline relationships for their benefit—this was about him. The work, the thrill of the chase, how could any relationship compare to the adrenaline shooting through his veins as he stalked a killer? Love—love was boring. Just chemicals in the mind. Love—sentiment made people stupid. More likely you're killed by a loved one than a stranger.

Jane would just be another idiot—albeit, perhaps one he could stand to live with.

Oh—Oh! But wait. She wasn't a complete idiot after all, was she? She could see, could deduce, though granted not to the extent he could. But was a start, was it not? How could he pass up this chance, to teach someone? She hadn't turned her nose up at his showing off—okay, maybe a little—but she had appreciated his genius! He hadn't thought he'd ever desire such a thing. He had seldom received it. Even Mycroft had scoffed at him, although their conversations had made him believe he was an idiot himself until he'd encountered others.

But Jane! She'd figured it out. She'd noticed the details, albeit not the same ones. It was a start! She could learn to see much more, couldn't she? He might have the opportunity to converse with someone closer to his intelligence. She was a four-leaf clover. And so complicated. He loved puzzles. Mysteries. She presented a wonderful one, but he didn't want to crack it too quickly. He wanted to savor this, meeting a human on his end of the spectrum.

Not that she was perfect.

She spoke too familiarly of his brother. She had tried too hard to be casual. She knew what Mycroft did, but his brother was dramatic. He would never have told her. To suggest she had worked it out on her own was almost laughable, especially as some facts were not in fact deducible without greater context. So what was it then? She hadn't let him see—she!

Perhaps it wasn't surprising Mycroft had put her on his radar before now.

He'd made sure to address her psychosomatic limp as soon as he could. She knew it was psychosomatic herself, but had been unable to trick her mind out of it. He couldn't very well have a cripple as his partner, now could he? They'd never catch anyone. And the plan worked beautifully.

When Anderson attempted to proclaim him a suspect, he was furious. This imbecilic fool, incapable of forming even the simplest of conjectures, how had he ever become a forensic scientist?

"No—he's not!"

Ah, Jane. He'd never had anyone defend him before. Not in this sense. Yes, people had defended his deductions, just as they attacked them, but his person? He'd never had anyone who would.

Anderson looked shocked. He had never been contradicted before—at least, besides by Sherlock. He spluttered, his expression revealing the search for a retort that would prove Jane wrong. "A sociopath, then!"

"That's exactly the same thing." Jane snapped back. Her navy eyes were full of fire, disgust. She didn't appreciate the inaccuracy. Sherlock didn't either, but he loved that he wasn't the only one. He smirked, his posture screaming the smugness of a parent watching his toddler say their first articulate sentence before anyone else's.

"Who the hell even are you!" Anderson shouted, his voice surely carrying down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson. He gestured rudely toward her, batting her away like a pestering fly. He had the gall to look at Lestrade, asking him to validate his words. "Really—"

"If you're going to insult me then at least have the decency to look at me!" Jane interrupted, rage and malice dripping from her words. She'd turned her back to Sherlock and he could not see her face, but he could see the way her shoulders shifted and tensed, the quivering that reverberated down her small frame to her right fist—which clenched.

Anderson had offended her, deeply. The way he attempted to disregard her words, ignore her fact correction, treat her as unimportant—it had awoken something in her. He could see her, a young girl ignored despite speaking the truth and silenced when she tried to make herself heard. Sherlock was no stranger to Anderson's insults, learned to quip back with ones of his own. But Jane—

Anger. Not hers—his. How dare Anderson do that to her? She deserved to be heard. She was right, after all. She was well versed in psychology, had bothered to check her facts while this idiot spouted fallacies. And just because he didn't like what she had to say, wanted to live in his bubble of ignorance, he saw the need to throw her words away? To throw her away?

Not if he could help it.

He put his hand on her shoulder, feeling the bone through the fabric of her sweater. She'd lost weight. Recently. Stress?

Sherlock met Anderson's eyes. He didn't bother pretending. He was angry. And he wanted Anderson to know it. The idiot could insult him anytime he wanted, but not Jane. She didn't deserve that. "Anderson, shut up."

Fear. Good. He'd scared him. He had always intimidated Anderson; the aggression was a coping mechanism. But this—ah, this was true fear. He saw the realization spread across the man's face, the realization that Sherlock could be dangerous if he wanted to. It wasn't like he'd never considered taking a life before—

He felt Jane shift and he tightened his grip, though careful to not hurt her. He wanted to defend her this time. Allow him that. He didn't know how else to thank her.

"Okay, that's enough," Lestrade said, stepping between them. The detective-inspector look turned to Anderson, "Get out."

No one moved.

"All of you!"

Sherlock felt an enormous surge of gratitude toward him. He'd known Lestrade five years, but their relationship was still difficult. Partly his fault, he knew. Partly Lestrade's—though he didn't know. He couldn't understand how Sherlock thought.

Lestrade turned back to them, running a hand over his forehead. The apology was written in his brow. "Sorry about that," he whispered, but it was just for Jane. Sherlock didn't need it. She did. She was still tense, still stressed. She would never like Anderson—predictably.

After moments pause, Jane nodded. She'd accepted Lestrade's apology. He felt her muscles loosen from beneath his hand and he lifted his grip at once. He wasn't sure she had appreciated it.

"Rachel's dead."

Ah, the case!

"How, when and why?" Forget Anderson, this—this was interesting. "Is there a connection? There has to be."

Lestrade didn't think so. "Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

Jane spoke in time with his thoughts. "But—no, that doesn't make sense. There has to be a different connection."

Yes. Why would Jennifer still be upset? Death of a loved one, sure but after fourteen years? And the effort it would have taken to scratch the name into the floorboard?

"She's trying to tell us something," he mused aloud. He stepped away from them, pacing the small space of the living room. Moving his legs was good for brainwork. Sometimes.

Mrs. Hudson came into the living room, saying something about a taxi. He was busy. What taxi? "I didn't order a taxi. Go away," he snapped. The sounds of everyone moving about muddled his thoughts. He heard Jane leave—good she could sort out the taxi business. But god, the noise!

"Shut up, everybody!" Sherlock shouted. "Don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

For once, he didn't protest. The forensics team froze, glancing at one another as though unsure if that meant they should still be packing up. And then it hit him. Finally.

"Rachel!" he shouted, causing Lestrade to jump.

"What?"

"She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer!" He would have to repeat this all to Jane when she came back. She'd appreciate his line of reasoning. The blank stares he received from Lestrade and everyone else was such a let down.

"Look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." He stiffened, ready to deliver. "Rachel is not a name."

"Well, what is it?" Lestrade lifted both his eyebrows, nodding for him to continue.

"There, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address. Read it out." He swept over to the laptop on the table, opening it and pulling up the Mephone's website. "Yes?" he prompted impatiently.

"Uh, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk."

"I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled." He quickly typed it in, the anticipation growing. He was so close. "And all together, the password is—"

"Rachel."

"So we can read her emails, so what?" Anderson was speaking again. Well, nothing lasted forever.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

She was clever, wasn't she? He smirked, and after a series of clicks a thinking bar appeared on the screen. In a few moments they would know where he was. But time was of the essence.

"We need to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," he frowned and Sherlock felt terribly unappreciated.

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London! It's the first proper lead we've had." Ping. It was done. "Where's Jane?" he asked turning back to the computer and looking at the map. He knew every street in London, every main road, back alley and sidewalk. But there was he one he knew better than all the rest.

"Here?" he took a step back, casting his eyes blankly around his apartment. "How can it be here? How?"

Lestrade shrugged, looking around as well. "Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out."

Sherlock scoffed. Ridiculous. "What, and I didn't notice it? Me? I didn't notice?"

Lestrade sighed. "Okay guys, start looking for a mobile phone, belonged to the victim." The forensics team bustled off to work, searching the crooks and crannies of 221B Baker Street again. But Sherlock didn't help them. He didn't move.

Who do we trust, even if we don't know them?

The first victim, he'd vanished from the railway station. He had taken a cab and then—showed up dead. James Phillimore, the second victim had been out on a rainy night and no umbrella had been found with him—yet the photos had revealed he wasn't soaked to the bone. He would have taken a cab—and then the first woman. Beth Davenport. She had been at a club; her chaperones had lifted her keys, so she would have flagged a cab to take her home—and Jennifer Wilson. Clever, clever, Jennifer had arrived from Cardiff at the London terminus, where she would have grabbed a cab to take her to the hotel—

A cab. The cabbie. The one that had driven the cab hours earlier, stopped outside of 22 Northumberland Street. How had he forgotten about the cabbie? The serial killer was a taxi driver! They were looking for—

"Where's Jane?" he asked again, louder this time. He whipped around, searching Lestrade's face. But he already knew. Mrs. Hudson had said there was a taxi waiting for him but he hadn't called one.

"S-Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway again, white as a sheet. With shaking fingers she pointed back down the stairs. "Jane—he's—"

"What's going on?" Lestrade called, coming to stand next to her. "What's wrong?"

"He has Jane," Sherlock muttered. He met Lestrade's eyes for a moment before turning and grabbing his jacket. "Stay here. If he sees you, she dies."

It was paramount that Lestrade understood that.

"Got it? No one follows me," he glanced back at Anderson and the rest of the forensics team. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Out front," she sobbed, and Lestrade gently guided her toward the couch. Sherlock flashed her the softest look he could manage at the moment and swept down the stairs. Oh, Jane. He hadn't figured it quickly enough to stop her, to realize what the taxi had meant. It would be his fault if she died tonight.

Fable

"There is no way you can win."

Jane Watson watched as Mrs. Hudson vanished from view, leaving her alone with the serial killer. She could see the gun out of the corner of her eye, hovering beside her head.

"You think so?" She couldn't see his face.

"You won't pull that gun. It's not your style." All his victims had died without a single drop of blood spilled. The drugs had all been self administered, so he preferred to psychologically manipulate his victims or else threaten them with the death of others.

"No. I won't." She heard a chuckle and something sharp hit her neck.

Jane gasped, her hand automatically shooting toward the spot but it was already too late. He grabbed her wrist as everything went fuzzy, thick exhaustion rushing over in a violent tidal wave. "What—" she spluttered, her legs losing all strength.

"Just a mild sedative," the cabbie said, catching her around the middle before she could hit the ground. He swam in and out of focus, confusion preventing her from forming a coherent thought. "Can't have you spoiling everything."

Movement. He was moving her. Where? Not far. She couldn't walk—not really. She slid and stumbled, helpless as he dragged her behind his car and popped the trunk. Her head dropped.

She couldn't see. It was black, but she wasn't unconscious. Why couldn't she see? Eyes. Eyes—open! But it was so hard; they just wanted to stay closed. She just wanted to sleep, to sink. She managed to blearily open one of them, just in time for her clogged brain to figure it out.

He'd put her in the trunk.

The door slammed shut and she was plunged into darkness. Not eye darkness. Real darkness. Her eyes were open. Weren't they? She couldn't lift her head. God, sedatives. Sed-da-da-dativesss. Drugs were better. Proper drugs. Alcohol was better. Fuck, anything was better. Not a real high. Didn't feel like it. She felt too heavy. To heavy to move at all but—fuck the case! The pink case. Pink. Not a nice color. Too—pink.

She couldn't think.

Voices? Were those voices? She thought she could hear them. She tried to lift her head but it felt like a dead weight. Nope. That's not happening. No moving at all—not for a few minutes. Had to be Sherlock. That vibrato was recognizable anywhere. Hm… silky and deep. Smooth like silk. Like something made out of silk. Scarves. Scarves could be made out of scarves. Snort. Scarves. Sherlock wore scarves.

Sherlock.

She shook her head, flopping pathetically from side to side. Come on, get it together. Don't loose it. There had to be a way out of here. Most trunks had safety hatches now and could be opened from the inside. Move! Her hands didn't feel attached to her, just floating. Cool.

Movement. Whoa. They were moving. The floor vibrated beneath her, her form shifting as the cab turned a corner. Where were they going? Hold up—had Sherlock just gotten into the taxi? What about her? Where was the police? She frowned. It felt strange. Her face muscles were moving strangely. Like putty. Or clay. Nah, putty. But hey, Sherlock was supposed to arrest him and get her out of the trunk. What the hell was this?

Oh right. Gun. But Lestrade was in their fucking flat. The police was already there. Just shoot him out of the window. This wouldn't have happened if Mycroft were here.

Okay. Where were they going? What was by her feet? They'd turned again and something hit her foot. Tire wrench? No—didn't feel like it. Move! No, the paralytic was still too strong. Sedative. Whatever. Was it a sedative? Did sedatives do this? She should know—she was a doctor. Sort of. Well, no. She read people. Liars. Yeah, took a liar to read one, didn't it?

She closed her eyes, concentrated on her breathing. She couldn't do anything right now. It didn't matter. They were still driving. The fuck were they going? Probably some abandoned thing. Place. So that he could convince Sherlock to kill himself. Snort. Yeah, sure. No—wait, maybe. Could it be done? Well, sure, if the guy was a genius. Proper one. He could manipulate him into doing it. How would she do it?

She was too out of it to actually come up with an idea.

Jane was nearly asleep when the cab finally shuddered to a stop. She jerked awake, and immediately discovered she could actually move this time. Brilliant. She couldn't hear voices anymore. They'd probably gone inside.

"Sherlock!" she shouted. She sounded like she was plastered! What the hell was in that syringe? She turned with difficulty and kicked the roof, trying to open the trunk. "Sherlock!" she shouted again. Who had the cabbie been talking about? He?

Oh, right there was a lever.

Jane lifted it and the back swung open, the cold night air striking some clarity in her. Okay. Get out. She struggled out of the trunk, sliding onto the pavement and resting against the back bumper. Breathe. Just breathe. She could think well, better than before. She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out her phone. The bright screen forced her to look away for a moment, blinking owlishly before she could actually focus on the number pad.

999

"I need Lestrade," she said when the call connected. She knew she sounded off. Her words slurred horribly. "Tell him—it's Jane. Sherlock—the cabbie's got him in—"

Where was she?

"Mam?" she heard the person on the line ask.

"I need Lestrade, okay? Inspector-detective Lestrade. His detective, Sherlock Holmes," she said, more urgently. "He was in the bloody papers!"

"I know who Lestrade is," the person finally said, sounding exasperated.

"Then get him!" Jane shouted. "Sherlock's with the serial killer. Back up. Everything." Right, location. "Um…" she turned around, looking at the building in front of her—two identical sister structures. There was an identifying plaque.

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Yeah. That's where I'm at."

She didn't care what the lady said next. There wasn't time! Or at least, she had to go and try to make some. Jane slipped the phone back into her pocket, dimly aware that she hadn't dropped the call, and tried to get shakily too her feet. She used the back of the car for support, but as she turned—looked inside the trunk—she saw what her foot had kicked before.

It wasn't a tire-wrench. It was her gun.

What did that mean? With unsteady hands she picked it up, staring at it. The cabbie hadn't used her gun? So that meant he didn't intend to shoot Sherlock at all—course not, that wasn't how he did things. He manipulated people. He was going to manipulate Sherlock into taking his own life!

Now there was definitely no time to wait for the police.

She stuffed the gun back into her shirt, and made her way unsteadily toward the buildings. Which one? God, flip a coin. That one. She ran forward, stumbling and unsteady, knowing that she would have failed every sobriety test. What on earth was she supposed to do in this condition?

Yeah. Panic. Maybe the adrenaline would help her fight the sedative off.

"Sherlock?" she called again, throwing open the doors and stumbling inside. She ran as fast as she could down the hallway, looking in every room, looking for some glimmer of light that would tell her Sherlock and the cabbie were there. Her chest heaved, her hands touching every door handle as she passed.

There.

She saw it through the door. It was unlocked and she took three steps inside before her triumph vanished. It wasn't there at all, not even close. She was in the wrong building. She could see Sherlock talking to him, standing across from the cabbie in what looked to be a large classroom. Just standing there.

"SHERLOCK!" She screamed but he couldn't hear her.

She ran to the window, colliding into desks and chairs in her haste, knocking them but still somehow managing to stay upright. The adrenaline was working, she could think more clearly now. She could see what was happening.

Sherlock had something in his hands, something small. The drug—it must be. So did the cabbie. What? Probably a game. Sherlock would risk his life for a game, in order to prove his cleverness. Course he would. The idiot.

So what to do?

Jane stood, frozen. She could hear her heart pumping, blood racing though her ears. She still felt weak and sluggish, the sedative still fighting to control her system despite the adrenaline providing clarity. She held up her hand, but was pleased to see it didn't shake. She felt tired, like sinking into a puddle on the floor and never getting up. But could she make the shot?

She didn't have a choice. She could see it—see the situation playing before her like a script from a play. She knew it would happen, Sherlock would put the drug in his mouth—ever the addict. She was going to kill him herself later. Making her drag her sorry ass up here to save him.

She opened the window. Better that the bullet only went through one pane of glass. She took a deep breath, pulling out the gun and settling into position, staring down the barrel. Sherlock was a little too close—he needed to move. Just a little. She was terrified she'd hit him. She shouldn't be shooting at all. She couldn't do it. She almost changed her mind completely, lowered her arms when she saw Sherlock ready to drop it into his mouth.

She gritted her teeth.

Lifted.

And fired.

Somehow it missed the detective and hit her mark, sending the cabbie too the floor. She couldn't stay here though. She had just shot someone. She groaned and turned to leave the room. Her foot snagged on one of the scattered chairs and she went sprawling on the ground, cringing as the gun slid several feet away from her. Laughing stock of the Special OPS she was. Couldn't even exit a room properly.

Fighting the urge to stay there, she crawled forward and grabbed the gun. She couldn't just leave it; the police would find it and easily tie her to it. Sure, it was done to save someone else but she'd rather avoid a legal dispute. So, she stuck it under her shirt again and fled. She must have only moments before the police arrived and she needed to be at the taxi when they did.

She barely made it.

She collapsed, winded against the side door of the cab when she saw the first sirens turn the corner, followed by half a dozen more. The first officer ran toward her, but she waved him away.

"In there!" she pointed toward the other building. The right one. "They're in there."

"Jane?"

It was Lestrade. He had come in the next car. "I'm fine—" No she bloody wasn't "—Sherlock's in there."

Lestrade nodded curtly and lead the way inside. Everything would be fine. Jane smiled and leaned her head back against the taxi, letting her eyes close. Everything was fine.

Fable

"Jane?"

"What?" she jerked awake, looking wildly around for a moment. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. Sherlock was there, crouching down in front of her and surveying her with a surprisingly soft expression. He usually only gave Mrs. Hudson that look. It wasn't warm but it was trying.

He definitely knew.

"You're okay, then," she said, getting slowly to her feet. He stood with her.

"You knew that," he said quietly, glancing at Lestrade who was standing a few paces away.

She nodded jerkily, looking away from him.

"You all right?"

She met his eyes. "Course I'm all right."

"You have just killed a man."

He was searching her face. She shook herself. "That's true," she smiled. "But he wasn't a very nice man, was he?"

"No—" Sherlock stuck his hands in his coat pockets. "No, he wasn't was he?" He smiled too.

"And a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock chuckled. "That's true, he was a bad cabbie. Should've seen the route he took to get us here." She saw his eyes zero in on her neck. "You might want to get that looked at."

"I'll be fine. Just a mild sedative." She felt tired though. Like she could sleep where she stood, but she wouldn't. "It'll wear off."

"I'm sure." He tilted his head and started walking through the police cars. She walked with him, glancing back at Lestrade.

"He doesn't need you?"

"No, I'll come in tomorrow." He glanced at her. "You need to get the powder burns out of your fingers."

Jane stuck her hands in her pockets. "Sure, first thing."

"And perhaps I should take…?" he trailed off meaningfully.

"Please." She glanced back at the police squad. "Though perhaps not until we're out of sight."

"I thought that was implied."

His look of confusion wasn't genuine. He was teasing her! Jane laughed, though her attention was quickly drawn by a car parked just ahead of them, just beyond the police line. She knew that car. Sherlock followed her eyes and slowed his pace at once, leading them toward it. As they neared the door opened and out stepped Mycroft.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited…though that's never really your motivation, is it?" He had a sneer hiding just out of sight.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked dismissively. Jane noticed how he seemed to place himself between her and Mycroft. She glanced at the elder Holmes brother, narrowing her eyes as if to ask the same question.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

Jane snorted.

"Something funny?" Mycroft shot, turning to her and raising his eyebrow.

"No, please go on," she said, a grin taking her face. Must be the sedative.

"Perhaps you were more worried about your asset," Sherlock said softly, holding his head a little higher.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your asset," Sherlock repeated and he opened the circle to Jane, inclining his head in her direction.

Fuck. He knew. She thought she'd been so careful and yet he knew. How did he figure it out? But she wasn't spying on him or anything; she wasn't here cause Mycroft wanted her to be. She wasn't his asset. Sherlock knew that right—right?

Mycroft appraised Sherlock for a moment before sighing. "Sorry, Jane dear. It seems you've been discovered."

"Of what?" she snapped back, looking between the pair of them. "I'm not your spy."

"No, course your not," Sherlock said turning to her. "But you have worked with him before." He was waiting for her to confirm. He saw it, but he wanted her to admit it.

"I didn't realize you were related, at first," she told him. She wasn't going to lie. She glanced at Mycroft. "Not until he summoned me last time."

"Slow," Mycroft smirked, glancing at the sky as if expecting it to agree with him.

"Well it's not like you talk about him," she grounded back. She closed her eyes. "By then though I'd already come to like the idea of sharing the flat, so I didn't want to mention it." She opened her eyes again, looking at Sherlock.

"What did you do?"

"For Mycroft?" She saw the affirmative in his face. She shook her head, smiling again. "You have more fun figuring that out on your own."

He returned her smile. "Good evening, Mycroft." He turned back to Mycroft. "Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Sherlock walked away. Jane hung back for one second longer.

"Keeping a weather eye, aren't you?" she asked, her tone dropping to a bare whisper.

"Of course," Mycroft looked bewildered.

"Then next time don't wait so fucking long," she spat, glaring at him. He had eyes and ears everywhere. If he had gotten her so quickly, than he had been monitoring the pair of them. He should have acted when things started to go wrong. He should not have let them figure it out. What if the sedative had been stronger? What if the cabbie had decided to keep her gun? She could have missed the shot! Could've shot Sherlock!

Mycroft didn't really nod. He stared at her before giving a very fake smile and a grunt. Good enough. Jane walked away without looking back, quickly falling into step beside Sherlock.

"Dinner?"

"Starving."

Fable

She hadn't really been starving, as she'd said. Sherlock assumed she'd agreed because she noticed that he was hungry and hadn't seen the point of arguing. Or she had been hungry at the time, but the hunger had left her after they'd arrived at the Chinese restaurant at the end of Baker Street. He was personally willing to bet that she'd finally been unable to fight the exhaustion caused by the sedative any longer, even to satisfy her hunger.

She'd fallen asleep in the booth, resting her head on the back of the seat, her legs folded beneath her. It couldn't be a comfortable position, which further suggested her sheer exhaustion. And so she should be.

But was she really okay after killing someone?

Sherlock had never killed before. Despite considering it, even plotting it, he had never succumbed to the temptation. Not even when his life had been in danger, for he could always see the alternate solution. How to defeat someone without killing them—he had some hand-to-hand combat training. Knew how much pressure to apply. Not that he wouldn't shoot someone if the situation called for it.

But Jane—

She shifted in her sleep, and slid off the back seat. She started awake, catching herself before she hit the table with the side of her head. Almost comically she smacked her lips together, rubbing at her eyes with her hands. He'd forced her to go to the bathroom first thing—wash the powder burns from her fingers. Couldn't have evidence tying her to the death of the cabbie. He'd taken her gun too, of course.

Though he'd probably hang on to it. Lestrade might actually find it in a dump or washed up on the shore of the Thames otherwise. Jane propped her head on her arm, watching him as he ate. He watched as her eyes slowly fell, her posture slipping until her face resting against the table.

Oh, for goodness sakes—