Chapter Text
sherlock au
The cab jostles and bounces through the streets of London, which sends its passengers tossing around inside it. I lean back against the leather of the seat as I try to swallow the building nausea and anger from the situation and pointed looks.
Well, more precisely look.
Uncle Mycroft is far too wrapped up in the contents of his notebook to acknowledge any piece of the situation. Dr. Watson, on the other hand, alternates between looking out the window and glancing at me as if he expects me to leap out of the moving cab at any moment.
Although, I have to admit, it's not an entirely irrational assumption. Because the prospect of tumbling out against the rough cobblestone has a growing appeal in contrast to sitting almost knee to knee against the angry look of Inspector Peter Parker.
His deep brown eyes bore into me from across the cab as he tries to pick me apart like he used to. It makes me have to bite down the need to fidget or hide in my seat like a school girl caught by the teacher. There's a part of me that foolishly wishes he was looking like that because he still cares but I firmly believe those days are long gone. If they weren't, we wouldn't be so cold.
My eyes fall from his, I've learned meeting his gaze for more than a second only fuels the fire. So I turn my gaze to his constantly moving hands. Although, I quickly wish I hadn't when I notice exactly what he's fiddling with—my grandfather's watch.
It was a family heirloom, which was passed down from my grandfather—a sought after watchmaker—to my mother as a token for her to pass on to her future husband and children. Papa once told me she thought of hearts like clocks. "They always have a constant beat to prove their alive. Additionally, in the wrong hands, they can be broken, but in the right ones, they can be mended as if nothing happened."
The old timepiece is easily recognizable for the intricate engraving that covers the metal faces. Papa gave it to me when I was fifteen as a way to remember the mother that had long ago faded into a ghost of memories. He even made me promise—a very unlikely thing of Sherlock Holmes to do—that I would only give it to someone I trusted implicitly and with all my heart—no one else.
There's an ache in my chest as I remember at time that was Petfer—and how despite so much that's happened, he still is the one I would trust with my life. I open my mouth to say something, ignoring the dull pain radiating from my recently broken lip, but the words fall short when the cabbie shouts, "Baker Street, Sirs and Miss."
I don't bother to wait for the cabbie to open the door or help me down. Instead, I resort to the unladylike action of stepping out on my own. It brings a small smile to my face as no one seems to care or notice due to my masculine garb, which happened to get me into this situation in the first place.
The door to 221 swings open to reveal a flustered Mrs. Hudson with a blanket in hand and face as pale as a ghost at the sight of me. "Y/N Holmes," She sighs as she drapes the blanket over me to cover my lack of 'appropriate dress,' "what on God's green earth happened to you? Do you have any idea how worried I was? I promise, you'll be the death of me one of these days."
I barely manage to hold in a laugh at her final statement. "Really? I was sure that would be Papa's doing." The elderly woman merely huffs at the jest and mutters something under her breath that I can't catch as she moves to welcome the men into the house. "I'll be in my study if anyone needs me."
"Not so fast, young lady. We still have much to discuss about your behavior today." Mycroft interjects before I can make it up the first few steps. "Just because your father allows this behavior and is not currently available, does not mean you can roam free."
"I made no comments otherwise. All that I ask is that we can continue this conversation in my study where I can continue my research. In case you have forgotten, I have cases to finish and theories to test, and do you not have meetings to attend?" I offer him a sweet smile and lean over the banister for a moment. "I'll be taking tea in my study if it's not too late, Mrs. Hudson."
"I am not your housekeeper." She snaps, but I pretend to be too far away to hear her as I crack open the latest acquisition to my library.
The thick blanket is immediately shed when I reach the comfort of our little sitting room, and I relish in the feeling of freedom that pants provide as I set the new book on the shelf. "Did you need anything else? Or did you merely come to lecture me, Parker?"
"Would you believe me if I said a bit of both?" I turn back to him to find him already watching me with soft eyes. "I merely came to make sure you were doing alright. Those looks like some fairly nasty bruises."
"I've had worse."
"You shouldn't have had any." He counters easily. "If I didn't know you better, I'd try to convince you to listen to Mrs. Hudson and settle down."
"I think you and I both know that opportunity came and passed for me." I mumble and try to meet his eyes for a split second. It's quiet between us as neither of us know what to say.
Luckily, there's a knock on the door that dispels the tension. "Come in!" I call as I turn away from Peter and try to pretend that moment didn't just happen.
Inspector Lestrade enters the parlor; eyes immediately becoming the size of saucers when he notices it's just Peter and I—alone. "Pardon me if I'm interrupting anything."
"I assure you it's nothing of the sort." I tell him with a forced smile and faux ease. "I believe Vienna is the answer you're looking for."
"Pardon?"
"My father is in Vienna. I assume you came here for him since most of the constabulary doesn't appreciate a woman aiding them in investigations." I pause for a moment to take in his appearance, and I quickly realize why he came here in such a flustered state. "Although, I'm assuming that you're willing to overlook that in this case given the circumstances. A young woman being gruesomely murdered is nothing to trifle with."
"How did you know that? I didn't say anything of the sort." Lestrade snaps, his accent becoming thick with his growing frustration.
"I don't believe we have time for me to explain my methods of deduction to you." I sigh and turn to Peter, who is already clenching his jaw at the idea of me getting myself into more trouble. "Give me a moment to clean up, and we can be on our way."
Hushed whispers erupt as I rush out of the room, and I barely make it to the door before a hand is gently wrapped around my wrist. "Y/N, you can't possibly be thinking of aiding in a murder investigation. It's far too dangerous, and I think even your father and uncle would agree."
"Well, I suppose it's a good thing neither of them are here to delay me with pointless arguments. There's no changing my mind once it's made up. So either help me, or step aside, Peter." He lets out a heavy sigh at my use of his first name and releases my wrist.
"Fine, but expect me to be by your side at every turn. Your family would have my head if I let any harm come to you."
"As long as you refrain from slowing me down, I have no arguments." I quip, biting back a comment that harm has already come to me by his own hand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, we've already wasted enough time."
The moment I make it back to my room, I let out a heavy breath and try to mentally prepare myself for the likely countless hours I'll be spending with Peter during this investigation. It is likely bound to end in disaster, but that is something I have become acquainted with. I suppose it seems to be a curse of the Holmes family. Good things tend to fall as splendidly as Rome until we're left with nothing but ashes.
Except, I can't help but wonder if just maybe, Peter might be the lone Phoenix to rise from the disaster and last through it all. But even if he did, I doubt he would ever be willing to return to what we once were. I fear I truly have lost him forever along with any chance for love.
Yet, the human mind is a curious thing, and maybe one day, it all may change.
I brush the thought off as I slip out of my masculine clothes and opt for something practical but lady like enough to not give poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. It's a the plain skirt and vest that working women sport and a blouse, but I don't bother to worry too much about it.
Instead, I make my way back to the parlor where the two inspectors are arguing in hushed whispers. "Now, gentlemen, if you're finished bickering like a pair of hens, I would very much like to get to the crime scene. Time's wasting, and as my father says, 'the game's afoot.'"