A/N: Okay, here goes nothing! Hopefully I'll have better luck maintaining a steady writing and updating schedule on this one than I've had in the past.

"Name?" Sorting through a pile of hastily scribbled notes, Sherlock located the one he was looking for. He already knew her name, anyway, not to mention what kind of dog she had (hair from an extraordinarily long-haired dog around her ankles and on her sleeves suggesting a small dog one she often picked up so most likely a friendly disposition that ruled out a couple breeds - small dog with hair that long that texture and that colour narrowed it down to a shih tzu), how she had gotten here (choice of comfortable footwear a subtle pink flush that was already fading factor in the weather - walking for not more than 15 minutes), and the fact that she was working in a library for the summer (smudges of ink not the kind from a pen or from a malfunctioning printer but from touching printed pages repeatedly two papercuts one meaningless two less likely especially so close in stages of healing handles paper often reading glasses case in the top of her purse); he was only going through these mundane questions to subtly determine her personality, but there was no reason she should know that.

"Uh, Amaryse Cordwell," the woman in front of him answered. Fiddling with a strand of her dark auburn hair before tucking it behind one ear, her eyes glanced at the papers. She seemed a bit nervous, or maybe shy? Shy would not do. John needed someone persistent and unafraid. To be fair though, most normal people would be nervous if they'd received a phone call from a complete stranger asking them to meet somewhere to discuss a business deal. It did come off as rather shady. "We spoke on the phone," she started, then let it drop as Sherlock continued to stare at her unblinkingly.

"Amaryse. How long have you been teaching?" Another useless question. The homeless network had given him all these details already.

"10 years now. Um, is this a job offer?" She wouldn't have minded quitting from the school she was at to go and work at whichever school this man was in charge of. Having a reason to see him every day would be a great incentive to switch jobs. "You didn't really elaborate on what sort of business you wanted to disc-"

"Never mind that," the detective said, cutting her off and firing another question at her. "Do you want kids of your own?"

"Oh!" Her brown eyes widened slightly. "Erm, yes, one day, but how does that-" She was interrupted again.

"That will be all." Sherlock said, voice turning dismissive. He turned his attention back to the papers in front of him, shuffling hers to the back and restacking them neatly. Looking back up, he caught her confused expression.

"Um, wha-"

"That is all, Ms. Cordwell." Ugh. Repetition.

After that, it only became more repetitive, as he interviewed several more teachers from various schools and grade levels, becoming increasingly bored of the process. Turning away yet another woman confused by the shortness of their meeting and his directness, he sighed and massaged his temples with two fingers. If he could deduce a person's entire personality the way he could deduce their "life story," as Sebastian Wilkes had put it, this would be a lot less tedious. He wouldn't even have to confirm their question of, "Mr. Evans?" He could just turn them away and leave them to thinking they'd been stood up by the mysterious caller.

Sighing again, he ordered another coffee and pulled the next candidate from the stack. Three more hours of interviews.

"Name?" He questioned for the 36th time that day, this time to a blonde woman who had sat down across from him after confirming his (false) identity.

"Mary Morstan," she said without hesitation, "though clearly you already know that." A small smile flitted across her face as she motioned to the notes in front of him.

Sherlock paused. So far no one else had mentioned the stack of papers revealing the fact that he was clearly meeting with several candidates; by the time the tenth woman had failed to mention it, he assumed it was perhaps some sort of "etiquette" thing he'd deleted. Maybe not?

"Yes," he delivered the word slowly before continuing the line of questioning. "How long have you been teaching?"

"It's been 6 years, but I was a private tutor before that. You knew that, too, though, at least the first part. What else do you know about me?" she asked, casting a lingering glance at the top page. Sherlock set his hands over it, obscuring what he could. He didn't need to, technically, but

"Ms. Morstan." He was quiet for a beat before continuing. She certainly was not acting the way the rest of them had. "When I mentioned business on the phone, you did not immediately tell me you were happy in your current job, like several of the others. Your outfit - inexpensive but clearly trying to impress - and facial expressions when mentioning your time as a private tutor compared to when you said 6 years suggests that it's due to the decrease in salary from being privately hired to earning teacher's wages. Your records from university are quite impressive, I must say. You even acted in several plays throughout your time there."

"You're not wrong, Mr. Evans," Mary answered. "You're not offering me a position at your school, though, are you? You'd have information with you about the school, if you were, not just handwritten notes about my transcripts and CV - which I will refrain from asking you how you acquired."

Sherlock contemplated her quietly, taking a sip of his fourth nearly-cold-by-now coffee. She'd picked up on that, then. Intelligent - by no means close to himself, of course, but enough to match John, perhaps. And she was not afraid to be straightforward - John would need that, too.

"Ms. Morstan," he spoke again, setting his coffee down. He spun it slowly in his hands, his mind racing as he made a decision.

"I am not a headmaster, nor do I work at a school at all. Parents...trust you, with their children. What I am about to trust you with is even more important than anyone's children could ever be. I am willing to-" he paused delicately, "trust you, so to speak, a great sum to take care of someone very important to me." He took a second to gauge her reaction thus far before going on.

"Do you have any experience helping someone deal with the death of a loved one?"

A/N: Characterizing Mary may be a bit difficult for me at first as I have yet to finish watching the Robert Downey Jr version who's Mary I'm basing her off of- stick with me, I'll get the hang of it (and probably come back and edit this chapter relentlessly)! The chapters are short for now, too, until things get rolling, but the word count will pick up later. Any constructive criticism is much appreciated. :)