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I could never determine if Mary had followed Sherlock back to the flat or if, deducing his destination to be Baker Street, she had simply swept off and left Sherlock to follow her. She was, at nineteen, nearly as tall as he, and carried herself with the same self-possession and confidence as my friend, but there the physical similarities ended—thank god, too. There was a moment after she first spoke that I thought he had a long-lost sister.
Well, or brother. In all fairness, she was dressed in men's clothes, a rather nice suit that fit her in the limbs but was far too broad in the shoulders.
"But it's a misnomer," she said, as she strode through the door at Sherlock's heels. "'The Science of Deduction.' Your primary method is formally known as induction: reasoning from the specific to the general, which is followed by—"
"Oh, what does it matter what it's called?" Sherlock tore off his gloves, as articulate a complaint as any he'd ever made.
"You're the one who spent three blocks lambasting the general populace for their lack of precision," she said, this strange, blond giantess who spoke to Sherlock as only Mycroft ever spoke to him. Instead of sulking as I thought he would, Sherlock threw back his head and laughed.
"Point, Miss Russell," he said.
"Furthermore, if the criminal—oh," she said, and broke off to goggle at me. "Dr. Watson. I read your blog."
"You read his blog? You read his blog. Of course you read his blog."
"Sorry," I said. "Have we met?"
"No," Miss Russell said.
"Do you two...know each other?"
"We've only just met, John, keep up. Russell, I have some soil samples in the lab I think you'd like to see." Sherlock imposed himself between the two of us and, caught in his wake, the woman followed. By the time they reached the sink they were caught in conversation again, heads bent together over a rack of test tubes.
Still not the strangest companion Holmes had towed home. At least Miss Russell was friendly, if a bit absent-minded; she told me good-bye before she bundled out the door, and said how much she'd enjoyed the aluminium crutch case. She said it the American way: alu-mi-num.
"Your watch," she added, "is at your office, probably behind the filing cabinet. Nice to meet you, Doctor. Night, Holmes!"
"How did she...?"
"And to think," Sherlock drawled. "A mind like that, wasted on theology."