Archive of Our Own

Adwin Kosan is not used to field work. Given the nature of his position, he is not usually the one who finds himself facing down criminals and those who mishandle artifacts. No, if anything there seems to be a rather stark disconnect between Mr. Kosan and the artifacts that he is in charge of protecting.  They have the retrieval team at Warehouse 13 for such things, as well as the Regent’s guard that handles a great deal of the more minor incidents.  The reasoning is that it is that it isn't safe for one such as himself to be so exposed, pretending to be something that he, most emphatically, is not.

Still, it is fieldwork that must be completed and there truly is not another in their number that could play this part so well.

Agent Simmons, one of the three men in charge of outside security, nods to Mr. Kosan as he walks up to the large black door that leads into the facility.  The naval yard is calm today, quiet.  It’s the way that Mr. Kosan likes it.  They've designed the security for this place, the Regents and their security group, even though the FBI is taking credit for it.

Mr. Kosan presses his hand to the security panel and walks into the room.  He watches with narrowed eyes as the guard changes, Jenkins and Park switch with Underwood and Lockert.  They take their positions and the door slides shut, trapping them inside with one of the most intriguing minds that Mr. Kosan has had the pleasure, in recent years, of meeting.

"Agent Matoo," she says, not looking up.  There's paint splattered on her pants and in her hair. She's started a new painting.

Their time together has not always been easy.  No, this woman had escaped the latest in Claudia Donovan's technological genius almost effortlessly.  The incident had left Mr. Kosan half-dead on the floor of this very room.  There had been a reason for that, and Mr. Kosan had found it noble enough to pull the strings to stay on this detail, even if he was never, not truly, an FBI agent.

She looks up then, all blue eyes and stormy intent.  She gets this way, he’s learned, when she’s painting. It’s better not to approach her unless she initiates the contact, her mind is probably a million miles away, and if he gets an answer at all, it will make little sense.  "You're wearing it again," she says, pointing with the end of the brush in her hand, at his lapel.  "Your new lapel pin."

Mr. Kosan chuckles, hand flying up to finger the pin.  It’s the mark of the Regent order, an Eye of Horus.  She’s fancied herself quite the detective, attempting to discern it’s meaning over the past few days.  "It isn't new," he says, not for the first time.  She smiles wanly up at him, sitting back and inviting him to come closer.  He complies, moving so that he can get a better look at her new work.  He's opening his mouth to add that he's had the pin for years, because that is not tipping his hand at all, when he catches sight of what she's painting.

Although she's only laid out loose block work, Mr. Kosan can see the twisting sweep of a wheat field in the dark of a night sky, a skeletal mulberry tree in the distance.  He knows this painting, knows the first and the second in its series.  They’ve been after it for years now: the two paintings that Van Gogh painted as he was spiraling further into his depression just before his death in 1890.

Her lips twist upwards into a sly smile; she’s caught him in the act of wonder.  He tips his head to her.  "You know this work," she says, and it's almost gleeful.

It was lost, Mr. Kosan recalls, sometime during the transition from Warehouse 12 to Warehouse 13.  They'd blamed the war then, because it'd been easier than stomaching the fact that many of the ships and then trains bound for the South Dakota facility from London had been robbed or sunk by German U-boats.

"I do," he counters, folding his arms over his chest.  He falls back into the persona he's cultivated with the Warehouse staff, all stern authority and with no room for her tricks. He's put a lot of truth into this alias, and she probably knows him better than most of the other Regents or Warehouse staff, save, probably, the caretaker.  "I had thought it and its companion piece lost."

There's something wicked that comes over her face then.  "Oh no, Agent Matoo, not lost.  Hidden."  She smiles like she knows when the world's going to end and Mr. Kosan would bet that on some level, she probably does.  He watches as those eyes narrow, staring hard at his lapel pin.  "Don't you know the stories about them?" He does, but he says nothing.  It's better to pretend he knows nothing at all. She does, after all, love the sound of her own voice, "It's said that such emotion was poured into the craftsmanship of these two paintings that they have special properties, if you can believe such a thing."  She tilts her head; a dab of dark blue paint is smeared across her cheek, transfer, probably, from the back of the paintbrush.  "Do you believe such things, Agent Matoo?"

And Mr. Kosan doesn't say anything at all.

That night, after he's been relieved of his post, he calls Irene and tells her that they have a problem.  There is a part of him wants to see if she can recreate the artifact's effect.  She's certainly talented enough of a forger, and he hesitates, just for a moment, before he tells Irene everything.

"This cannot possibly be more pressing than the fact that you have set H.G. Wells loose in the Warehouse without any real supervision," Irene replies, her face severe in the Farnsworth's black and white screen. It is late, and they’re both tired. "Arthur is right about her, Adwin, you know that."

"I fear that that is something that must come to pass, Irene," Mr. Kosan replies.  He's seen the darkness in Helena Wells, but he knows the secret that's locked inside her mind.  They must locate that weapon before it is too late and it falls into the hands of one of their enemies.  There are forces moving in the shadows.  He sees them and knows that they must tread carefully to avoid suspicion.  He trusts that the Warehouse team can handle Helena Wells, when the time comes. "Else all will be lost in the end."

"You're starting to sound paranoid, Adwin, maybe spending so much time with that criminal mastermind of yours isn't good for you," Irene chuckles, but they both know that his continued monitoring of Jamie Moriarty is vital for the time being.  They're almost recruiting her, in a sense, she is a perfect voice for the Regent's council, she just needs... shaping.

"She's seen the lost Van Gogh series."

Irene leans forward then, staring at him severely over her glasses.  "Are you certain, Adwin?"  Jamie Moriarty, after all, is a talented liar.

"I am," he replies.  He has never been so certain of something in his life.

"I'm sending them to you. Agents Lattimer, Bering and Wells."

"Are you sure that it is wise, to put Wells so close to Moriarty?"  Mr. Kosan hates to think of what could happen; should those two minds become aware of how potent could be together.

"I fear we have no other choice."

Joan Watson is pretty sure that this is the weirdest crime scene that she's ever had to odious pleasure of investigating.  She stands on the very edge of the obscenely expensive Park Avenue apartment's living room and looks around with wide eyes.  Beside her, Marcus is doing the same, only he's taking notes rather than taking note of Sherlock, who's...

"Please tell me you did not just lick the priceless painting." The exasperation creeps into her voice even now, and she crosses the room, stepping gingerly around blood splashes and bits of gore that really should disturb her more than it does, to pull Sherlock back and away from the painting that dominates the room.

He starts, apparently lost in his own thoughts, and turns to regard Joan as though she's just deprived him of a new and interesting thought experiment.  He gets all pouty when he's like this, and Joan takes her hands away and stares up at the painting.

There's something about the way that the paint is applied to the canvas that sets her teeth on edge and sparks the hairs at the back of her neck to stand up.  She feels nervous around it, like it's full of malicious intent and something that's pure evil.

Her mother has told her of things like this, objects that have more power than they should.  She'd said that they were signs of an ill-content heart, and that they should be avoided at all costs.  Joan, who has always been practical, dismissed them as old superstition and had thought nothing of the warning.

Now, surrounded by gore and no murder weapon and spotless walls on the fifteenth floor of a building that Joan's not even sure they let people into unless they're millionaires or someone's died, she feels like her mother might have had a point.

"This painting is considered lost, Watson, did you know that?" Sherlock says, staring up at it.  It's got to be about three feet by three feet, set in an ornate frame that Joan thinks takes away from the work.

On the canvas is an impressionist's cornfield underneath a black, twisted night sky.  In the distance, a bush that appears to be on fire, or maybe just a deep red, is depicted.  "The Mulberry Bush One, I think is the name," Sherlock adds.  “First in a series of two.”

Marcus comes over then, glancing up at the painting before gesturing to the mess of gore on the floor.  "What do you make of this?" he asks, "Because, frankly, I got nothing."

Sherlock stares around and puffs out his cheeks, hands plunged deep into his pockets.  Joan can see the nervousness in his eyes and she doesn't know how to react to that, because both she and Marcus know what it means, and it isn't good.

He doesn't know where to start.

From the door, the duty officer calls Marcus over and they're alone before the horrible painting once more.

Joan doesn't say anything, she steps away from it and stands in the middle of the room.  "There are no bodies, right?" she begins, and Sherlock looks up.  "So where are they?"  She's not an expert, but she knows that all the gore that covers vast swathes of the stark white carpet and the blood that's fallen in large pockets about the floor cannot account for the sheer about of blood that the probable victims - the two home owners - bodies would contain.  Sebastian Moran had made sure that they're both very aware of what a human body's blood looks like, completely removed from the body.

He turns then, hands still in his pockets and eyes frantic.  They fall on the painting and he seems almost taken with it for a moment, staring up at it and reaching out a hesitant hand to the frame.

"Watson," he says, and his voice is deathly calm.  "Would it be terribly remiss of me to suggest something truly improbable at this juncture?"

Joan's got nothing, so she makes an affirmative noise and steps forward to get a better look at the painting.  It makes her feel almost uncomfortable, staring up at it, like she’s being drawn into a dark vortex of malcontent.  "What do you think?"

"The paint on any masterwork like this will probably never dry, yes?" Sherlock begins, reaching up a finger to point at the distant, blood red bush.  Joan nods, following his finger. "Then why," Sherlock says, rising on his toes and running a ginger finger over the red paint that dots the tree in violent downward slashes, "Is this so wet that I can scrape it off?"

He pulls his finger down, and Joan looks at it closely.

It looks as though he's cut himself, blood welling up from a nonexistent wound though the white glove on his finger.  Joan pulls it forward to inspect it more closely.  "It looks like blood," she says.

"I know," Sherlock replies grimly. "I don't know what it means."

Helena is inordinately excited to go to New York, at least, in a super-centurion sense.  She sits on the edge of her seat, and Myka watches her count the minutes until they land.  She scribbles in a little notebook, and stares at Pete as he tries to give her instructions on what they're supposed to do when they get there.

"You should try and observe at first," Pete says, fiddling with his badge.  "Claudia was able to fake you up some credentials, but Mykes and I have both actually been through the academy.  We know what we're doing."

"Are you implying that I don't know how to run an investigation, Agent Lattimer?"  Helena asks.  Myka can see, from her position on Pete's far side, that Helena's face has become a stormy mask.  "Might I remind you that I wrote large portions of the Warehouse manual that are still being used, to this day."

Pete has the good grace to look sheepish.  "Oh, right, the manual."

Myka leans forward, a grin playing at her lips.  "Pete's made it a point to never read it," she explains and Helena's eyes go wide.

"Surely Mrs. Frederic is aware of this and has attempted to remedy the situation."

"Uh," Pete says, looking at Myka for help.  Myka just rolls her eyes at him, because they've had this conversation a million times before and really, he should just read the damn manual.

They all laugh then, and the ice is broken.  Myka knows that Pete doesn't trust Helena, and Myka can't really blame him.  She hasn't been entirely trustworthy.  And yet, Mr. Kosan had personally vouched for her, so it stood to reason that she was probably okay.

The rest of the fight is spent discussing why Mr. Kosan himself would be calling them out to a job.  Helena, especially, is confused by it.

"It doesn't make sense, the regents are supposed to stay away from the artifacts they protect.  It protects the warehouse and the people who actually do work with the artifacts."  She folds her arms over her chest as Pete arranges the rental car.

"Is this right?" He asks, holding up the address from their case file.  "The Brooklyn ... Naval Yard?"

As Myka had been the one to write it down, she nods.  "Search me as to why, though," she says.

The drive from JFK to the naval yard is silent.  Helena is staring up at the city as they catch glimpses of it between buildings and around trees.  "Do they still play baseball here?"  She asks after a moment.

Pete nods, turning around from the passenger's seat to explain.  "There are two teams, the Mets and the Yankees."  He makes a face, and the Cleveland sports fan comes out in full force.  "The Yankees are like this evil empire.  They win the pennant all the time and buy up all the best players."

Helena makes a humming noise, and turns her attention back to the window.  "I saw a game here, once, back when there were fields lining the shores of the river, rather than skyscrapers."

Mr. Kosan is standing just outside their destination, his hands in the pockets of his long tan overcoat and his expression pensive as he stands outside in the cold March air.  It’s spitting a bit outside, and Myka rolls the window down as she pulls up beside him.  “Hello sir,” she says.  She’s still not entirely sure how to address the man.  He’s their boss, but he’s also the head of the Regent council, somehow, a simple ‘sir’ doesn’t seem like enough. 

He nods to Myka, stepping forward to speak to the three of them through the window.  “While we are inside, you are to address me as ‘Agent Matoo of the FBI,’ do you understand?”

“Are you undercover?” Pete asks, because it wasn’t obvious by the fact that he’s presenting them with an alias.  They still don’t even know why they’re there. 

“I am, Agent Lattimer,” Mr. Kosan replies.  He pulls a hand from his pocket.  “Park over there, I’ll explain before we go inside.”

Myka pulls the car away and heads towards where he’s indicated; watching him follow their progress with slow, even steps. She parks and they pile out, Myka taking the case file with them. She’s read it cover to cover now, but she’s still not entirely sure what a top-secret FBI detainee can do about helping them find a series of paintings that all Warehouse records indicate were destroyed during World War One. 

“Mr. Kosan,” Myka says, offering him her hand now that she’s not driving a car.  He shakes it, and then takes Pete’s and Helena’s in turn. 

“Agent Bering,” he replies.  “It is good to see you and Agent Lattimer so soon.  Although I wish it was under better circumstances.”  He looks almost as though he’s not entirely sure how to address Helena, before inclining his head.  “Agent Wells, I believe that you have some experience with the Mulberry series Vincent Van Gogh painted.  They were, after all, quite the coup for Warehouse 12 to neutralize.  The writings of your mentor, Catturanga, speak rather highly of your involvement with the retrieval.”

Helena clasps her hands behind her back.  “The reports indicate that they were lost in the transition between Warehouse 12 and Warehouse 13, sometime during the Great War,” she points out.  “So my involvement with them is somewhat minimal, as they’ve once again fallen into the wrong hands.”

“So it would seem,” Mr. Kosan agrees.  “The prisoner I’ve brought you here to speak to has seen the first, if not the second as well.” He nods to Helena.  “I thought it best if Agent Wells were to do the interrogation, as she is the only one here who has also laid eyes on the paintings before.”

Pete let out a derisive snort, and Myka rounded on him. “Pete!” she hisses.  She understands that Pete doesn’t trust Helena at all, after what they’ve been through together.  She understands the pain of it, and yet she’s seen the good in Helena, and she thinks that he should respect her opinion on it.  She doesn’t say anything else though, because Pete digging himself a deep hole in front of Mr. Kosan is his business.

“HG has no modern training in interrogation, Mr. Kosan,” Pete points out.  Myka can see Helena’s eyes on him, watching him with some interest.  She hopes that Helena isn’t insulted by his insinuations regarding her skill as an investigator, however founded in truth they may be. 

Mr. Kosan smiles.  “That is exactly why she is perfect for this task.” He holds out a folded slip of paper.  “I need you both to check into this, Ms. Donovan forwarded it to me after I asked her to check the recent police reports.  I believe that this murder may be connected to this case, and if it is, we must move quickly.”

Myka takes the paper; it takes her a moment to place the address, she thinks it’s somewhere in Midtown, but she’ll have to check it on the GPS.  If it is, indeed, in Midtown, they’ll have to hurry if they want to beat the afternoon traffic.

They turn to leave, Pete glancing over his shoulder.  “How many?” Myka hears Helena ask Mr. Kosan. She turns too then, and can see that Helena’s expression is grim.

“Two, they think.  There are-”

“No bodies,” Helena replies, shaking her head.  “No, there wouldn’t be.”

Myka swallows nervously, wondering just what the hell kind of artifact they were dealing with.

The woman across from Jamie looks wholly out of place and Jamie cannot put her finger on why.  “I’m fairly certain that you are not my approved list of visitors,” she says in lieu of greeting.  She bridges her fingers together and sets them primly in her lap. 

She’s used to this, on some level.  Agent Matoo will bring people in to speak with her, and Jamie will have a few moments of fun, riling them up before carefully considering acquiescing to their requests.  She normally does.  There’s really nothing better for her to do with her time these days. They’ll let her out, soon enough, it’s only a matter of being patient.

“I’m certain that I’m not,” The woman replies, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear and smiling politely at Jamie.  Her accent is familiar, she’s obviously English, but Jamie cannot place from where exactly. 

“You’re English,” she says, because it’s going to bother her if she doesn’t find out. Her accent is playable to a certain extent, she sounds like South London, clipped and cultured in a way that suggests an upper class upbringing, and probably a preparatory school of some repute.  “London?” she throws it out like a casual guess, but she’s certain of that much.

“Bromley, actually,” she replies, and Jamie’s eyes narrow.  Bromley has been a part of London for almost a century, and Jamie has never met anyone who bothers to clarify the borough as separate from the city proper.  “You?”

Jamie shrugs. “Oh, here and there, you know.” She says; because the truth is not something she’s willing to discuss with anyone, let alone a total stranger from Bromley.

“I’m meant to ask you about the painting that you’re in the process of reproducing,” the stranger says, resting her elbows on her knees and leaning forward. 

“How are we to get to know each other if you have not even told me your name?” Jamie asks. 

The woman falters, glancing towards Agent Matoo for a moment.  He nods, and she smiles slowly.  “My name is Helena Wells.”  She holds out her hand and Jamie takes it.  It is rough, calloused, the touch of one who works with their hands, it is not at all what Jamie had been expecting.  Her handshake is firm, like a man’s.  That, however, she had been expecting.  There was a way that Agent Wells carried herself that sticks with Jamie, and her handshake tells far more than it doesn’t.

“Jamie Moriarty.”  She pulls her hand back and smiles a small, politely interested smile.  It is a society smile; one Jamie learned when she was young.  “Tell me, Helena Wells, how did you come to work for the American government?”

“It’s a bit of an odd story, actually,” Agent Wells answers, forgetting herself for a moment.  There’s a dark humor in her eyes that Jamie can appreciate.  She’s laughing quietly as Agent Matoo’s jaw, Jamie notices, twitches slightly. She guesses that it’s because this Helena Wells is a relatively unknown element to him.  She cannot be controlled as the usual rotation of her guards can, and she files that interesting bit of information away for later perusal..   “But not what we’re here to discuss, Ms. Moriarty.”

“Just Moriarty, if you will,” Jamie replies, her expression betraying nothing of her inner annoyance.  Miss Moriarty has been dead for years now and it’ll hardly do to raise a ghost from the dead. “I’m hardly a ‘miss’, Agent Wells.”

Wells nods, her mouth a thin line.  There’s nothing about her that betrays anything outside of the ordinary.  She doesn’t have a good relationship with Agent Matoo, but she’s obviously a hold hand at interrogating people. She’s well read, probably went to a good university, and works for the FBI, rather than British Intelligence, which is interesting.  She’ll have to play along for the time being, to see if she can coax more information out of this woman.

“So,” Jamie says, leaning back and resting an arm over the back of the sofa she’s currently occupying.  She is the picture of casual interest, but her mind is working overtime, desperate to discern what Wells and Matoo are looking for. “What do you want to know about the Van Gogh?”

They’re about to leave when the feds show up.  This, naturally, means that Sherlock digs in his heels and decides to linger, poking and prodding at the painting with a blood-red paint smeared finger. Joan has already taken off her gloves and is standing over by the window, watching the street below.  She turns to watch them, curious as to what a pair of federal agents could possibly want with this fairly bizarre, if run-of-the-mill murder.

There are two of them, dressed in suits and looking highly self-important as they move around the crime scene quickly and efficiently.  The woman has a head of riotous curls and a pleasant smile.  She makes her way up to Joan and stands beside her.  “I understand that you’re a consultant, along with Mr. Holmes?” she says.  She has a kind face, now that Joan can see her up close, and sad green eyes that look as though they’ve spent more time hurting than happy.  Joan likes her instantly, even if she’s got a bit of that no-nonsense vibe about her. 

“Yes,” Joan says, holding out her hand.  “Joan Watson.  Sherlock and I are called in to consult on cases occasionally.  He likes the weird ones.”

“Myka Bering,” the fed says, taking Joan’s hand. She has a pistol in a shoulder holster under her coat, and another, older looking object under the other arm.  Joan’s not entirely sure what it is, she suspects it’s some sort of a baton or maybe a taser.  “US Secret Service.”

“I wasn’t aware that murder fell under the umbrella of national security,” Joan jokes.  She’d thought that they were FBI agents, or maybe some goons from Homeland Security.  The Secret Service is about as far away from an investigative body as Joan can think of, even if she doesn’t claim to know everything about what their particular agency does.  They’re bodyguards, not investigators. 

Myka Bering chuckles. Her hair is falling into her eyes as she looks down at her shoes.  Joan watches as she digs into her pocket, pulling a pair of purple gloves out and tugging them on.  “You’d be surprised, Ms. Watson, what falls under that umbrella.” There’s a quiet amusement in her voice, and Joan realizes that they must get that comment a lot.  “I understand from Detective Bell that you and Mr. Holmes found something interesting on the painting itself?”

Joan nods, and leads Agent Bering over to the painting.

“The series is said to have special powers, did you know that Agent Wells?” Jamie says, watching her carefully for a reaction. She says it because it’s meant to shock Wells into betraying herself, but Wells merely nods.  Her expression is as solemn and contemplative as ever, and Jamie feels the irritation rise up within her.

“It is said that the first in the series can suck you into it and crush you, whereas the second will blow you away,” she says, as if quoting from memory.  There’s a haunted look on her face as she speaks the words that makes Jamie wonder, not for the first time during this conversation, if she’s perhaps seen the paintings herself.  They are truly magnificent to behold, some of Van Gogh’s best work.  The idea is preposterous; however, as they were in the hands of a private collector for years now and one such as this woman would never run in those sorts of circles. “But those are just tales, aren’t they?”

Jamie leans forward, a smile playing at her lips.  “You tell me, Agent Wells.  You’re the one investigating them.”

It takes Sherlock all of ten minutes to get Agent Lattimer to crack and tell them a bit more about what they're investigating.  They're standing before the painting, all transfixed by the mysterious wet spot of blood red paint.  "We were sent by a colleague," Agent Lattimer explains, fiddling with his jacket pockets as Joan tries not to take note of all the nervous habits he's got.  He's glanced, a few times, at Sherlock's sobriety pin.  Joan hates that she sees the spark of recognition in his eyes, and hates even more than Sherlock’s noticed it too.  She hopes he doesn’t say anything.  "Agent Matoo of the FBI?”

The rate at which Sherlock's face turns from genuinely intrigued to stormy and closed-off is impressive.  Joan knows that they can see it, for their entire posture changes and Agent Bering, who seems the more serious of the two, glances over at Joan.  "You two know each other."  It isn't a question, but rather a statement based on observation.

"You could say that," Joan says, because they last time they'd seen Agent Matoo it'd been in the hospital, where he'd been recovering from Moriarty nearly killing him.  He'd been surrounded by people, his family and friends, Sherlock had surmised at the time.  They hadn't gone in, just watched for a moment before leaving.

"It is more the person he guards, rather than the man himself that has caused my reaction," Sherlock announces, stepping away from the painting and around the crime scene techs who are currently documenting the scene.  "I have nothing but respect for Agent Matoo, and if he's called you in on this case, your expertise is entirely welcomed."

Joan still doesn't see what two murders that may or may not be connected to an evil-looking painting that's probably by Van Gogh has to do with the Secret Service.  Or what, if anything, this has to do with Moriarty.  Agent Matoo could be working on more than one case.  They could have even reassigned him, after Moriarty's attack.  There was simply no way of knowing.

"Well," Agent Lattimer says, hands in his pockets.  "Thank you."  He's got a boyish smile and charm about him that he's turned up a great deal.  Agent Bering rolls her eyes at him and takes his arm.

"We should call HG," she says, and Joan's head tilts to one side.  They have a third colleague, aside from Agent Matoo then.  Interesting. "Tell her what we've found f she’s out of that interview."

"I still don't like the idea of leaving her alone, Myka," Agent Lattimer replies. Joan hadn’t realized it until this moment, but Agent Lattimer is actually the same height as Agent Bering, but he’s still somehow managing to make it seem as though he’s looking up to her.  It’s impressive, really. "Especially with Mr. Kosan.  What if she tries to off him?  She's dangerous."

"Pete," Agent Bering says, irritation clearly in her voice.  She lowers it, glancing over her shoulder at Sherlock and Joan.  "Look, HG saved Claudia and Artie's life.  She's more than proved that what happened with MacPherson was a onetime thing."

They lapse into stony silence, obviously disagreeing about something significant within their own sphere of work.  "What precinct do you work out of?" Agent Bering asks, turning to Marcus, who's been supervising the crime scene techs and going through the victim's rolodex, looking for next of kin to notify.

"The eleventh," Marcus replies.

"Okay," Agent Bering makes a note on a scrap of paper in her pocket.  "We need to check back in with the rest of the investigative team.  Will you be returning there tonight?"  She turns her wrist to glance at her watch.  "It's already after five."

Marcus gives her an appraising look, and Joan wonders if he's about to ask what sort of hours she expects an NYPD detective to work.  He's probably working a ten to nine shift as it is.  "I'll be around for a while, if you'd like to stop back. If you need to come back here for any reason, you're going to need an escort though."  He flashes that sheepish, charming smile that gets him his way more often than not.  "It's procedure."

"Sounds good," Agent Bering says.  She pulls a card from her pocket.  "This has my cell number on it.  I think they've put us up at a hotel by the airport, I don't have that information yet."

"Thanks," Marcus says, and watches as they leave.

"I," Sherlock announces, glancing sideways at Joan.  He bounces on his toes and fiddles with his coat pocket.  "Would like to follow them."

"Why?"  Joan asks.  She doesn't want to venture a guess as to why, because she'd learned long ago that her guesses when it came to him were almost always wrong.  "You can't think that they're not actually secret service."

"No," Sherlock shakes his head, pulling his phone from his pocket and handing it to her.  "They've both been in the papers for various heroic actions with regards to the life of your president."

Joan scrolls through the new articles, focusing in on an article that she thinks she remembers reading.  Something had gone wrong at an opening of the National Gallery when the president was attending, and Agent Bering had saved his life from a crazed man.  "You aren't kidding," she says, and hands the phone to Marcus as he comes to look over it.  "Why do you want to follow them then?"

"Because, like it or not, this is not their purview.  They are trained body guards, not investigators, by trade. I want to know what had led them to involvement with a murder investigation."

"Uh, Holmes?" Marcus says.  "There's another article here that says that Agent Bering worked for the mint in Denver before transferring to the presidential detail in Washington.  If that's the case, we could have some sort of a potential currency-involved crime on our hands."

"Funny," Sherlock replies, taking his phone back and switching the screen off.  "That our supposed victim is a banker then, isn't it?"  Joan rolls her eyes at him and Sherlock almost pouts.  "They were with Agent Matoo, Watson, which means that Moriarty is somehow involved with this and I'd like to know how."

Joan sighs the long-suffering sort of sigh that she usually reserves for when he's at his absolute worst, and tries to mentally ready herself for another encounter with Sherlock's crazy ex.

"I'll drive you," Marcus offers.

"You're a lifesaver," Joan groans, because she was not envying the task of getting Sherlock into a midtown cab at rush hour and listening to him chat in Arabic or Spanish or whatever language the driver spoke for the probable hour it would take for them to get back to Brooklyn and find their way over to the Naval Yard.

A loud, metallic-sounding wail fills Jamie's sanctuary, and Agent Wells looks almost embarrassed, hurrying to her feet.  "My cellular phone," she explains, looking sheepish as Jamie watches her cross the room to speak in a low voice with Agent Matoo.  He nods, after a moment, and lets her out of the room.

When she's gone, Jamie lets her expression fall from pleasant interest to a scowl of annoyance.  She has gotten absolutely nothing out of Agent Wells about her person beyond her hometown and a careful evaluation of her knowledge of the Van Gogh series.

If Jamie hadn't been certain that the woman had seen the paintings before, closer inspection definitely pointed to that assumption being correct.  Agent Wells had an acute knowledge of the paintings and the lore surrounding them.  She cited an incident in 1893 of which Jamie had not been aware, where a relative of the recently deceased man had foolishly hung the two paintings together and several deaths had resulted.

The way that Agent Wells had spoken of the incident provided a wealth of insight into her character.  She had a vastly creative mind, and a flair with words that suggested that she wrote in her spare time.  Jamie picks a fleck of paint from under her thumbnail, a yellow ochre that she hasn't mixed quite right yet.  The lack of her normal paints after her previous indiscretions with the glass jars has stretched Jamie's mixing skills to the limit.

"What do you think of her?" Agent Matoo asks from where he's standing by the door.

Jamie eyes her jailor with a critical look in her eye.  "I think that she has no idea why she's here, would you say that that's a fair assessment?"

Agent Matoo seems to contemplate these words, evaluating each and every one, and discerning Jamie's meaning almost effortlessly.  "I would say," he answers at length, "That you are partially correct.  Agent Wells knows her purpose in this world quite well; it is just a matter of executing that purpose that has her torn."

"And why do you think that is?" Jamie asks.  She's covering, because she cannot follow Agent Matoo's line of thought perfectly without some further consideration.  He speaks in riddles at the best of times.

"Because she's discovered she can love again." Agent Matoo says, and his smile is wide and brilliant.  Jamie grits her teeth and doesn't look away.  "And the idea terrifies her."

Love, Jamie thinks bitterly, is for weak-willed people who cannot separate biological need from psychological dependence.  Jamie understands the conundrum all too well herself, and she eyes the painting leaning against the far wall appraisingly.

"Why have her interview me, then?  You already know where that painting is."  It's an honest question, because Jamie cannot pull meaning from the conversation with Agent Wells, and Agent Matoo is far easier to talk to.

"To determine-" He's cut off by the sound of someone knocking on the door.  He presses his hand to the release on the door and opens it.  Jamie cranes her neck to see who's on the other side of the door, trying to keep her expression disinterested.  She catches snippets of conversation, strange words that don't fit and seem rather out of place.

It takes a few moments, but Agent Matoo steps aside from the doorway and allows Agent Wells and two other newcomers into the room.  Unlike Agent Wells, they are dressed in smart suits and look very much like federal agents.

"Agents Bering and Lattimer, meet Jamie Moriarty," Agent Matoo says, gesturing to them.  "Jamie," and she does so hate it when he calls her by her first name, "these are Agents Bering and Lattimer of the US Secret Service. They've come with Agent Wells to look into the whereabouts of the second in the lost Van Gogh series."

Jamie slowly gets to her feet.  She's seen the second, but only once, and she doesn't think that she'll ever forget it.  While the work that she's ideally recreating for a mental exercise is bewitching enough to pull the viewer in, Jamie cannot recall ever being so repulsed by a picture before.  The grotesque has always fascinated her, and there had not been anything overtly grotesque about that piece. No, it was just a feeling of ill-ease and a want to get away before it was too late.

"Look, Mykes," Agent Lattimer whispers to Agent Bering.  He's pointing at her portrait of Joan Watson, her first truly original work since school.  "Isn't that the consulting detective we met at the crime scene?"

A wide smile erupts across Jamie's face then, and she knows Agent Matoo's seen it based on how he scowls.  "You've met Joan?" she asks, and she's practically gushing.  Her fascination with Joan Watson truly does know bounds.  She steps forward, her posture as open as she can make it.  "Tell me, how is she?"

Agent Bering folds her arms across her chest, glancing at Agent Wells, who gives the most imperceptible of shrugs. Jamie's eyes narrow, honing in on the body language of the two women.  They merit further study, especially if what Agent Matoo says is true. "She seems well."

"What," Joan demands, scowling at the blank and derelict warehouse space that they all know plays host to one of the world's most dangerous criminals.  "Are we doing here?"

Sherlock turns to look at her from the passenger seat.  "We're watching to see if they come out with Moriarty, at which point we will go back to the precinct and inform Captain Gregson."

She'll believe that when she sees it actually happen.  Sherlock is like a child when it comes to Moriarty, he will not simply walk away, not if he can give her a chance to twist his mind in circles and make Joan's life miserable for weeks to come.

Marcus lets out an annoyed breath of air.  "I gotta agree with Joan, Holmes," he says.  "There's no point of stalking a bunch of Secret Service agents. They can get us into a whole world of trouble, too.  I don't know about you, but I have no interest on ending up on some sort of list."

Sherlock gives him an appraising look.  "You worked for the terrorism task force, you could get your name removes from the list if you wanted to," he points out, like it's enough.  He doesn't say much else, but Joan doesn’t think he needs to, because Marcus frowns and looks away.

"Anyway," Joan says, stopping them before they can go down that path again.  They're working on it, slowly but surely, and it's definitely a work in progress.  "We shouldn’t just sit here.  Go in and talk to them, if we have to, we don't even have to see Moriarty."

"She'll know," Sherlock says with a scowl.  "And I'd hate to think what her devious mind would come up with as retribution for our stopping by and not saying hello.  We might have to scrape Agent Matoo off the ceiling, I don't want that."

"I'm pretty sure that the three FBI agents in the room with her at any given moment will stop that from happening," Joan says dryly.

None of them mention that it hadn't stopped her before.

Marcus' cell phone rings and he picks it up, his expression turning from pensive to actually alarmed as he listens to what the person on the other end of the line is saying.  “Okay,” he says in a placating voice.  “Just calm down, we’re on our way.” He hangs up and reaches up to flip on the cruiser's lights.  "We gotta go back to the crime scene," he says.  "There's been an incident with one of the CSU guys."

He puts the car in reverse before they can say anything else and they're halfway down the block before Joan has processed what's just happened.  "What happened to him?"  she asks.

Marcus' expression is grim.  "He, and I have no idea if this is actually true, apparently got sucked into the painting."

Joan blinks and meets Sherlock’d gaze in the rear view mirror as he glances back at her.  Just what the hell kind of painting was that?

Mr. Kosan's phone rings a few moments into their interview with Jamie Moriarty, and Myka glances over her shoulder at him to watch him step towards the door that wouldn't look out of place in their umbilicus, and outside before answering it.  She hopes it isn't anything serious, but turns her attention back to the woman before her.

"It's strange, really," Moriarty - and she insists on just her surname - says.  Myka read in her file that it was something of a calling card, a single name.

"What is?" Myka asks, picking up her notes and setting them on her lap.

"Agent Matoo," Moriarty continues, her gaze still fixated on the door.  "He almost never gets calls and he always takes them in here.  I suppose he thinks that his life is too boring for me to find much entertainment in it."

Pete and Myka glance at each other and then quickly look away.  Mr. Kosan's life is anything but boring, and they all know that fact too well.  Pete's poker face, Myka sees, is improving.  He doesn't so much as crack a smile at Myka's raised eyebrow, while Helena lets out a low chuckle.

"This has been an interesting case," Myka confesses, rubbing at the back of her neck.  She knows it's a poor decision to show weakness, but honestly, they have no idea what the hell to do with a killer painting.  They've been running all over the place as it is.

The door hisses open once more and Mr. Kosan comes in.  "Agent Lattimer, Agent Bering, I'm afraid that you're going to have to return to the crime scene.  There's been another incident. You’ll have to neutralize it now, it can’t wait."

"How is that possible?" Helena asks from Myka's side and Myka turns to stare at her.  They haven't had any time for Helena to tell her much of what this artifact actually does; only that it apparently eats people.  "It would require..." Helena trails off and glances at Moriarty.

"Don't stop on my account," Moriarty says, and Myka can tell that she's absorbing every word that's said like a sponge.

Myka bites her lip and tries to will Helena quiet.  Helena seems to follow the line of Myka's thought and clams up, looking worriedly at

"Yes, Agent Wells, it would.  I need you to contact Leena and see if you two can work out a reason why it's going off without those specific circumstances.  Ms. Donovan should also make herself available."  Mr. Kosan looks down at Moriarty, where she's sitting on her couch looking for all the world as though she's having the best day ever.  Myka feels a surge of irritation, but Mr. Kosan keeps his expression unreadable.  "Get your coat," he says.

"You're letting me out?"  Moriarty says, and her shirtsleeve slides down to reveal a horrible scar, still pink and raised still, on her wrist.  Myka wonders what happened; it hadn't been mentioned in her case file. "Are you certain that's a wise choice, Agent Matoo?"

Mr. Kosan stares at Moriarty appraisingly.  "Not at all," he says at length.

"Good," she replies, standing and crossing to the corner of the room where there's a small alcove.  She comes back with a long black trench.  "It's still raining, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Pete says, and he looks utterly lost. Myka has to agree with him.  They cannot bring a fugitive, especially one kept in a black zone prison, out into the city.  It's a foolish, stupid idea.  "Don't you have to, you know, clear this with people?"  He asks Mr. Kosan.

"At this moment, Agent Lattimer, preventing that portrait from further action is more pressing than red tape."

Pete raises his eyebrows and lets out a low whistle.  "Alrighty then," he says.

And Myka shares his sentiments.

Joan doesn't look at the painting, not at first. She's overwhelmed by the smell of decay that fills the room. The entire wall around it looks as though someone's decided to act out one of Sherlock's blood splatter experiments, but she cannot discern a splatter pattern that doesn't come directly from the painting itself.

There are a pair of legs, still dressed in the white CSU jumpsuit, lying bloodied on the floor.  The duty officer that met them out the door had vomit on his shirt, and Joan understood instantly.  She claps her hand over her mouth and rummages in her purse for the jar of vicks she keeps there to deal with the smell of decomposing bodies.  It somehow isn't enough to shake the visual.

"The painting has not been harmed at all," Sherlock comments, taking the vicks when Joan offers it to him.  He puts it on and tosses the jar to Marcus, who catches it with a grateful nod.  "Fascinating."

Joan shakes her head, her attention to putting on gloves.  Only Sherlock would be intrigued, looking at this crime scene.  It looks like something out of a horror movie and it smells like the most horrible waterlogged body that Joan's ever encountered.

"It shouldn't smell like this," Joan says, venturing closer to the pair of legs that are crumpled on the floor.  They've been severed in ragged, jagged strokes, almost like teeth.  Joan bends down and gingerly rolls the leg over once it's photographed.  The bone is splintered, fragments of it embedded in the flesh around the wound.  It would take an incredible force to cause a bone to shatter this way.

"No," Sherlock agrees.  His attention is on the black scrapes on the stark white carpet that the man's shoes have made.  He'd been clear across the room, documenting the contents of bookshelf that stood opposite the painting.  "It appears that he was dragged with considerable force across the room," Sherlock says.  He gets to his feet and steps to the sofa, where the tech's camera is discarded, flash fallen forgotten to the floor.  "And it appears that he threw his camera away in an effort to escape whatever pulled him forward."

It seems as good a time as any, Marcus has stepped out to interview the two duty officers and the other CSU tech.  Joan rises to her feet and stands with bloody fingertips before the painting.  "Sherlock," she asks. He's flipping through the camera's photos, probably looking for a possible clue as to what happened.

He looks up then, and he's followed her line of thought.  "There is something here that I cannot explain, Watson," He scratches at his chin and lets out a quiet sound that could be a sigh.  "I don't know if I shall ever be able to explain what happened here."

He is a scientist, same as she is.  They see patterns and observe and deduce.  The only deduction that Joan can make from this is that the painting has sucked this man and the two earlier victims into itself.  She catches a whiff of something that smells suspiciously like chocolate in the air and turns, glancing at Sherlock.

"Do you smell that?"

He wipes the vicks from his upper lip on his sleeve.  Joan winces, thinking of the stain it's going to leave.  He sniffs the air, brow furrowing in confusion.  "Why does it smell like... fudge?"

There have been many strange days in Jamie's life.  Given the nature of her work, unpredictability is almost a certainty and flexibility is paramount to ensure survival.  This day, however, as she wordlessly follows the odd collection of Secret Service and FBI agents that have come to collect her, is certainly among the strangest.

Agent Wells is on the phone, speaking to someone that Jamie can only surmise must be the 'Leena' mentioned earlier.  They're discussing the painting at great length, and what's being said is starting to make Jamie doubt a great many things that she's taken for granted much of her life.

"No," Agent Wells is explaining to the female voice on the other end of the phone.  "Wolcott and I tried that back when we were first attempting to neutralize it.  It ended with him pitched out a window and into a hedge - I had to apologize to the gardener for a good twenty minutes before the man would let us leave."  She bites at her lip and then her eyes flutter closed, a look of exhaustion and pure emotional anguish crossing her face.

Jamie leans forward, intrigued, she'd caught glimpses of this expression on her before, when it was just Agent Wells interviewing her.  She carries a great burden, of that Jamie is sure.

"What if there's something else?"  Agent Wells asks, a thought suddenly occurring to her.  "I recall when we tried to store them at Warehouse 12 that they reacted negatively to almost every other artifact they were in proximity to.  I had to retrofit a storage closet and appropriate parts of my-" she glances at Jamie, and lets out a small breath of air, "time machine to correct the neutralizer field."

A time machine?  Jamie wants to throw her head back and laugh.  Agent Wells had seemed like a normal, if somewhat lost woman.  To speak so frankly of a time machine was so completely out of Jamie's scope that she found herself casting around, looking for a reason to discredit everything the woman has said to her up to this point.

They're waiting outside of the apartment complex for Agents Matoo and Bering to convince the doorman to allow them access.  Jamie thinks; if she wanted to, she could walk away and they'd not miss her.

They hadn't spoken much on the car ride over here, instead choosing to explode into a flurry of action once they'd arrived.  Jamie knows that they have to go up to the fifteenth floor; she'd heard Agent Lattimer mention it in passing.  He’s rummaging in the trunk of their rented SUV, collecting a duffle of supplies and a long tube that Jamie guesses is probably for the painting.  She hopes he knows how to properly handle a painting of such value.

It is easy then, to slip past them all and heads towards the lift.  She blends in with the clientele of this place; they're not going to throw her out.

The smell of something vaguely like chocolate is everywhere on the fifteenth floor, and Jamie feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.  There's something not right about this, and she feels exposed.  She has no weapon save her wits, and while they have yet to let her down, she cannot help but wonder if they won't be enough.

She ducks into the stairwell as the duty officer and detective that are present on the scene are probably called down to collect Agent Matoo and his wayward band of underlings.  Jamie waits until she hears the lift doors close.

At the end of a hallway all in white, there is a door open.  It stinks of death and chocolate, and Jamie thinks it an odd combination before she gets to the door, hands slipping from where she'd plunged them into her pockets.  Sherlock and Watson are inside, picking up objects on a bookshelf and inspecting them carefully.

Jamie senses, rather than see the picture as it surges to life once more.  She steps forward, one step, two steps, five.  She pushes Sherlock away and pulls Watson to the ground just as the painting twists and mutates. Half the books on the shelf are sucked across the room, falling on top of them in painful thumps.

She's half on top of Jamie, eyes wide and probably the most frightened that Jamie's ever seen them.  Jamie tries to force her mind to remember Joan Watson like this, because she's never going to allow this to happen again.

"Well," Sherlock says, righting himself and looking down at the small carved monkey in his hands.  His eyes flick to Jamie’s, narrowing in confusion before they relax once more. "At least we know how to turn it on."

Watson gets up slowly.  She casts a nervous glance over towards the painting, and scoots backwards, parting the avalanche of books slowly.  Once she's fully beyond the scope of the painting, she scrambles to her feet.  Jamie backs away in the opposite direction, and stands, eyeing them from across the width of the painting.    "How did you get out?" Watson all but demands.

"I believe that your Detective Bell was called away to allow my escorts entry to the building.  It was taking an absurdly long about of time for one as high-ranking as Agent Matoo to argue his way into access, so I let myself in."  She leans against the bookshelf, an disinterested look on her face despite the fact that she knows that it had not been by chance that they’d let her wander off.  No, she was meant to witness this.  For what purpose, Jamie does not know yet.  Nor, does she suspect, she will find out for some time.  "Lucky that I did."

They both seem somewhat resigned to the fact that she'd kept them from harm.

"What is your involvement with this?" Sherlock demands. He won’t stop fiddling with the carved monkey in his hands.  Jamie thinks that he should put it down, but she cannot think of a way to say it that will not result in his stubborn streak kicking in and an abject refusal to do anything at all.

"Truthfully?" Jamie says, because it's been bothering her as well.  "I'm not entirely sure.  I knew the man who lived in this apartment; he handled some of my above-board investments.  A few days ago now, I started a study on the blocking of that," she points to the painting, still not looking at it, "and Agent Matoo recognized it and called in his team of investigators."  She shrugs.  "They've been looking for both paintings for some time, something to do with national security."

Sherlock glances at Watson, who is rubbing at her arm where a book undoubtedly hit her.  "They said the same thing to us when they came to investigate."  He sets the monkey down and Jamie lets out a quiet sigh of relief.  The smell of chocolate is even stronger in here and she is almost convinced that they have to get out of the painting's line of sight before it takes them all out.

"Ah," Agent Matoo is at the door, eyeing her with some displeasure.  "We'd wondered if you'd run."

Jamie turns then, a wide smile on her face.  It's entirely fake and she feels almost as though he can see through it effortlessly.  "And miss the explanation for all this fuss?" She tuts.  "You don't know me well at all do you, Agent Matoo?"

"That," Sherlock says in a low undertone to Joan and Moriarty as they stand in the far corner of the room and watch the three agents gather around the device in Agent Well's hands.  Agent Matoo is speaking in a low undertone to Detective Bell. "Is a video transmission device of some sort."

Moriarty, beside Joan, her fingers trailing up the arm of Joan's jacket as though Joan does not notice and think she’s being overly familiar, makes an affirmative noise.  "It looks old too, easily mid-thirties."

"If not older," Sherlock muses, rising on his tiptoes and craning his head around to get a better look.

Joan turns her attention back to the three Agents who are now moving through the room with a precision that almost shocks her.  They're taking down the painting and - Moriarty lets out a quiet, almost offended gasp - turning it so that the canvas faces the wall.

"Okay, HG," Agent Lattimer says, gesturing to the woman.  She comes over and together they slowly slide the entire painting into a giant silver bag that sparks a bit as they lower it to the floor.

"H.G. Wells," Moriarty breathes.  Joan turns to look at her, eyes wide and alarmed.

"The author?" she asks.

"It would appear that somewhere between the name and the back of the book, history has made a few adjustments," Moriarty says.

Joan thinks the whole thing is probably just a coincidence and says as much.

Both Moriarty and Sherlock look at her with interest then.  Joan ignores them to focus on the cleanup of the rest of the room.  The books are put back; purple aerosol cans are produced and sprayed over everything until something sparks.  They put Sherlock's monkey figurine into another bag and Joan cannot help recall episodes of the X-Files she used to watch in high school.  This is a cover up; they're just witnessing it for some reason.

Agent Matoo comes up a few minutes later and pulls Moriarty aside.  "You need to study the painting now that it's neutralized, take any photographs that you need.  You're going to paint the fake we leave in its place."

What's the most interesting is that Moriarty simply nods and goes to speak to Agent Wells in a low undertone that Joan cannot make out.  Joan would have thought she’d put up more resistance, demanded more answers, something other than this passive submission that seems so utterly wrong on her.

He stands before Joan and Sherlock then, hands in his pockets.

"Are you, in fact, employed by the US government?"  Sherlock asks. Joan is, secretly, glad that he’s thought to clarify, because she’d been wondering as well.

Agent Matoo nods.  "I am.”

"And Ramses Matoo is not your name,” Sherlock continues.

"No, it is not."  He smiles politely at them both.  "We have, within our organization, access to technology that Jamie Moriarty would have never even heard of.  It was the initial hope of the joint US Marshall-FBI task force that designed her prison that she would never come to know just how much it took to keep her incarcerated."  He shakes his head.  “Unfortunately we underestimated her and she found her way out.  Security protocol has been changed, and it seems as though she was right when she told you to come and see her in a year.  Her release should happen soon.” 

It isn’t something that either of them are particularly prepared to think about right now.  Joan swallows, pushing the thought of Moriarty on the loose, potentially investing vast amounts of time in messing with them, and feels sick to her stomach.  She doesn’t want that.  Not now, anyway.  "And all this?" Joan gestures to the room.  "What the hell is that painting?"  Agent Lattimer brushes by them, the still-sparking bag of monkey statue in his hand.  "Or that monkey for that matter."

"In your travels, Joan Watson, these will not be the first strange and mysterious objects that you encounter, nor will they be the last."  Agent Matoo bows his head in an almost respectful gesture.  He’s a powerful man, Joan can see that clearly now, a lot more powerful than the simple gay FBI agent that was put in place to guard Moriarty.  "I only ask that you both keep an open mind about the possibility that there may be some things you simply cannot explain."

He takes Moriarty and the CSU camera away after that, leading her back down the corridor.  She glances over her shoulder; a strange look on her face that Joan knows is reserved just for her.

Joan raises her hand, and, after a moment’s hesitation, waves goodbye.

The three federal agents debate for a moment before turning the silver-covered picture on its side and carrying it from the room as well.

"That it then," Sherlock says after a moment.  "A cover up."

"Or maybe it's a way to put us on notice," Joan says after a few moments contemplation.  "They left us one of their bags, in case we encounter something like this again."  She points then, to the folded sliver bag, lying forgotten on the coffee table and the carefully folded sheet of note paper above it. 

They tell her of the truth on a Wednesday, as Jamie is putting the final coat of varnish on the painting.  They've been taking it away in shifts, to bake it and age the paint appropriately. They won't allow her an oven.  This is the final time.

"My name is not Matoo," Agent Matoo explains, sitting before her and looking almost sheepish.  "But I'm fairly sure you've known that for some time."

She gives him an appraising look, brush held in mid-air.  "I had my doubts."  She tilts her head to one side.  "Are you still gay or was that a lie too?"

He chuckles, palms pressed together and elbows on his knees.  He's leaning forward, looking almost casual, friendly.  "We can let you out, Jamie, if you'll do something for us."

"What?" She asks, because she's not a fool to agree blindly.  Such things always come with strings attached.

"Meet with a colleague of mine, tell him what you know of the digs in Egypt your organization stopped upon your arrest, and we will let you go."

Jamie feels the smile that pulls at her lips then, clamping it down effortlessly.  "There is said to be a great horde of treasure, buried out there," She confesses, for that is not a lie.  No, the lie comes after, and they both know it.  "I had merely wanted to discover if there was any truth in that rumor."

And, some ten days later, when Jamie finds herself face to face with a sour-looking man named Benedict Valda; she doesn't think of the desert at all.  She thinks of Joan Watson's face as she'd walked away, her hand raised in parting and how she had desperately not wanted it to be the last time she’d seen her.