Chapter One - The Great Game: part I.

221B Baker Street. The residence of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and Dr. John Watson.

The gun felt warm in his palm.

He turned it over and over in his hand, examining the make.

If John knew, he'd take more precaution next time he kept his drawers unlocked.

Sherlock Holmes was bored. And boredom, as it happens, often plagued the most gifted of minds.

Perhaps Mycroft was right in choosing a profession, which means to never become idle. Then again, Sherlock Holmes couldn't care less about international relations, and becoming a shadow to his brother Mycroft was never ever an option worth spending thought in.

So silly how so much bored he is nowadays without her, yes, he survived even if by just hearing her voice, but it's already been three days since their last contact.

Has it only been three days? Funny…it felt so much longer.

Her name dying on his lips, eyes somewhere far away, to an image of a woman, her back facing him, she stands next to the railing, an unknown horizon before her, her raven hair blows quietly to the left, when he calls her name, she turns, a lovely smile on her warm face, her nose going pink in the cold, her eyes crinkling in delight. He closes his eyes.

Sherlock ruffled his hair in silent frustration with one hand as he looked back on his last conversation with her.

Three Days Ago...

"I was beginning to think you'd never call," the voice from the other end starts. The phone was picked up on the sixth ring.

"And I was beginning to think that you'd never answer, Kathryn." Sherlock chuckled from his end. He already feels a change in him—lighter—so to speak. John was out at his new job, on the rare occasions he was free of his flat-mate from Hell.

"Right, sorry sorry," she said with a shake of her head, finally setting down on a modest armchair which she curled into; tucking her feet underneath her. "I couldn't find my phone beneath all this luggage." Kathryn looks to her bed, her clothes and bags cluttered her tiny room, she was beginning to pack, and procrastinating from pressing matters such as continuing the blasted chapter she so owed her anxious editor.

"You're packing?" he said, interested at the new occurrence, straightening in his seat.

"Yes, actually, I've been meaning to call…I have some bad news." She says with a sigh. He remains silent from the other end, letting the new information seep in. He dreadfully missed her, his Kathryn. "I won't be able to call you for some time. I'm going to leave here soon, getting ready to move again—haven't decided as to where, but before that, I wanted to visit this remote part of the area. It's supposed to be really beautiful, a sacred place of worship to the people. A pilgrimage if you will. The locals are nuts for it. My guide says up high in the mountains, he says the mist there shines like silver, there's a waterfall leading to this hidden spring that according to the locals; bathing there could heal just about anything. I don't know, maybe it'll cure me of my wanderlust, or it could be a new addition to my novel." She goes on excitedly, weaving words together and making them sound surreal as he tried to imagine where on earth she's going. "It's a weeklong hike there and back. And when I say, remote, I mean, totally, no service, complete isolation. Not anyone around for miles. And it's a new experience. So, there's that." Kathryn tells him animatedly as he says nothing.

Kathryn grimaces at his prolonged silence. Nope. He doesn't like this idea one bit.

"I am sorry Sherlock…" She says firmly. He doesn't answer so instead she continues, "I'll promise to bring you a souvenir…Well?" Kathryn asks with a hopeful tone.

"Sure, Kathryn, fine. I'll miss you." He says in resign. He cannot stop her; he knows nothing can when that woman sets her sights on something. It was her nature. One could not love just one part of Kathryn; one must love all of her being; the untamable creature that she is, with her magnificent beauty and indomitable will.

He imagines a ship inside an old glass bottle, perfectly preserved in a moment in time; being thrown about by the rocking waves and wild winds, he thinks she is the storm in the seas; marvelous, frightening, stunningly devastating, wrecking havoc along her path.

He is the ship's captain, in constant desolation of the hurricane, holding on for dear life, but he does not want the storm to pass—but instead, revels in the sweet destruction of her ways; he is the hunter of her storm. For him, it shall be the best feeling in the world. Weathering the waves breaking on the hull, and the salt-water spray, the ferocity of the gale, and the unchanging randomness of the tempest before him. That was Kathryn to him, a never-ending storm. It was a different kind of thrill.

Kathryn could not help but smile to herself. He seemed truly disappointed.

But she knew something he didn't. It shall be a wonderful surprise indeed, Sherlock Holmes. She wants to laugh—to see the look in his face; she quickly bites her lip and composes herself once more. "Enough about me, I'm sure you get bored of hearing all this from me—"

"Never." He responds too quickly. Which earns him another unseen smile from the woman.

"So, what about you, what's new with my Sherlock Holmes?" she says drawing the conversation to a new topic. It is now his turn to smile at her claim to him, for she does have him, in his enigmatic entirety.

"Haven't really found a case worth my time. Everything's just so domestic nowadays. So boring. Surely a nice puzzling murder isn't hard an ask." Sherlock replies with a sigh. She chuckles on the other end.

"I think that might be quite problematic for other parties don't you think, for the murder victim maybe? So, nothing then? Nothing at all?" She says, trying to prolong the conversation.

"Might be one in Belarus, I'm not entirely convinced yet, might be a 6, 6.5?" he huffs.

"Beggars can't be choosers. Besides, aren't you in a bit of a dry spell?" He could hear the grin in her voice; he smiles slightly at the thought.

"Bit chilly this time of year. Belarus." Holmes states.

"So how's your doctor?"

"Pardon?"

"John, silly. He's alright? You treating him okay?"

"Why do you ask? I suppose he's fine…"

"Oh, Sherly!" she sighs with an exasperated laugh "I've been dealing with you almost all my life. I've spent so much time with you we're hardly not in contact. I know what you're like, and I know how people can misinterpret first impressions, you don't exactly have a repertoire for being amiable except maybe when you're with me, not to brag, but I know you better than anyone."

"Who are you, my mother?" he chides.

"I know you better than your mother, that's a fact. She has to call me so I can fill her in on what's happening with you." He could hear the grin in her words. "It wouldn't hurt to call her once in a while."

"John's fine." He huffs.

The pass most of the hours exchanging their experiences, things they found interesting or funny, new words learnt in a new language, differences between tobacco ash, market prices, trivial things—not that he minded much, her words seemed to just clear his mind palace for a while whenever they talked and he was free to empty out his thoughts to her. She's a pill, and the addict inside him cannot help but to crave her companionship.

The appearance of John seemed to remedy something for him. Perhaps not as much not starved of friendship. It was hard, her being away so often.

She missed him, more than she let on, more than she wanted him to know, and if it took the secret meanings behind certain perfumes to keep him talking longer, then sure, she'll listen to anything, just to hear his voice. She glanced at her watch and was startled by the time they spent together. "Crap! Is that the time? Oh, I still have so much to do." She groans, her fingers scratching her temple. "I have to make this quick Sherlock, sorry."

"So soon?" He asks.

"Jenny's been on my arse recently demanding a new chapter that was due two weeks ago." She looks sideways to her laptop and sees the open document, the chapter was only halfway done and she still needed to edit it.

Kathryn grimaces at the work before her, glaring at the screen as the white page haunted her. Damn writer's block. Just a few chapters to go, c'mon Kathryn, you didn't win this many awards for nothing. She was almost done with her novel, she could feel it, and however, the ending is somewhat lost to her, as if she could not find the closure her character or even her fans deserved of her. They'd definitely go after me if I killed him off…On to less grim topics and finality… "Alright Sherlock, I really have to go now, just remember, if I don't come back, just assume it's the bus driver."

"What?" he says incredulously.

"Shifty eyes, mate. They're positively creepy. Like he was eyeing every one of us when we got off that bus. Gives me the chills…" she says in a whisper. Sherlock Holmes chuckles at her words in a deep baritone only he could achieve, she giggles to at her joke. "There he is, I knew in that grumpy exterior, that funny little boy was still there!"

"Alright, Kathryn. Just, stay safe." He says seriously, all the jesting gone. He smiles nostalgically.

"I thought that was my line, Holmes?"

"Goodbye."

"Yeah, bye-bye, Sherlock. Listen; take that case in Belarus. I wouldn't want Mrs. Hudson going round the bend! You terrorise your landlady and your flat mate enough as it is." She laughs, "Take care, Holmes. " Kathryn stares at the phone for a moment, her finger hovering over the end call button before finally pressing it.

She looks down with a small grin on her lips. He doesn't know.

Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes places his phone back in his pocket, his thoughts lingering to a certain storm. I've never been to Belarus before…

Meanwhile, somewhere across the world; the raven-haired woman picks up her phone again, she presses a few numbers on the keypad before selecting a name; she calls the number, and it is answered on the third ring. "Hello M, my dear…yes, 'course he bought it. Why wouldn't he?" She smiles.

Kathryn Marion Derosiers Ashbury. Sherlock Holmes thought as he slumped back in his chair and fired off two shots into the wallpapered wall of his flat.

Bored. John should be back soon—maybe he'll bring a case. Where is Kathryn—still in the jungle? Has it only been three days? Sherlock Holmes closes his eyes in thought. I need a murder. Murder. Murder. Murder. Anything? I NEED a case. Bored.

He hears the latch in the door opening. John. Finally. A case?

Holmes turns back to the graffitied wall opposite him with a sigh; he aims absent-mindedly for the yellow smiley-face he drew on the yellowing black and white wallpaper, firing more shots, successfully grabbing John's attention.

Sherlock's poor flat mate runs up the stairs, crouched, ears covered, wary for stray bullets as shot after shot is fired in 221B. "What the hell are you doing?" John shouts, panicked. Sherlock turns to him unconcerned.

Watson sees the consulting detective reclined in his chair, pajamas still on along with his blue robe. The bastard hasn't even bothered to change! And—why does he have a gun?! That's my gun! Why does he have my gun?

"Bored." his flat mate answers.

"What?" John says quickly, not believing the sight before him.

"Bored!" Sherlock replies with a start.

"No—" John starts, before Sherlock cuts him off as he jumps to his feet, gun in hand shooting at the wall some more, one shot is fired from his arm behind his back. Trick shots; bless him! John uncovers his ears before quickly prying the gun from his flat mate, who merely walks past him, inspecting his handiwork on the wall.

"Don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them." Sherlock says.

"So you take it out on the wall?" John asks, efficiently dismantles the gun, taking the magazine and storing it away before Sherlock could get his hands on it once more. What bloody loon shoots his own goddamned wall?

"The wall had it coming." Sherlock retorts, swiping at the damaged wallpaper in a swift movement, and then collapsing on the couch.

"What about that Russian case?" John asks, taking off his jacket and glancing at the insufferable Consulting Detective.

"Belarus? Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time." Guess she was wrong about that one. Though kudos for the new experience.

"Oh shame!" John answers with feigned interest. He walks to the kitchen, only regretting doing so when he sees the mess Sherlock had left, his experiments filling up the table and a skull placed off to one side. "Anything in? I'm starving." John announces, striding up to the fridge an opening it.

He sees a severed head sitting neatly atop a plate in the middle of the fridge. "Oh fu—" he utters in fright before promptly closing the door, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. He opens the door again and looks grimly at the horror of the oddity propped up nicely in his fridge. "There's a head." He whispers to himself, probably questioning his decision about his new flat mate. Was it too late to veto that? "A severed head!" he exclaims aloud to Sherlock, appetite down the bin.

"Just tea for me, thanks." Sherlock mutters dryly.

"No, there's a head in the fridge!" John calls.

"Yes?" Sherlock goes on, indifferent.

"A bloody head!" Watson shouts, disgusted, furious.

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" he says to John. "You don't mind, do you?" he adds.

"Well…" John whines.

"Got it from Bart's morgue." Sherlock offers, not looking at him. Kathryn didn't like it when I put the fingers next to the salad in the vegetable crisper, or spiders in her sock drawer either. Hmm…well at least it wasn't with her underwear. Not that it would harm her; the spiders were perfectly harmless—in most respects… There was that time I tried to grow mould colonies behind the tub… "I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," he continues as John rubs his eyes in vex. "I see you've written up the taxi driver case." Sherlock says, motioning to the John's opened blog.

"Er, yes." John replies shortly, opting to sit down to rest.

"A Study in Pink, nice." Sherlock supplies.

"Well, you know, Pink Lady, pink case," John imparts, determined. "Pink phone. There was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

"Um…no." Sherlock retorts from behind a magazine. The title reads: 'In Town—The Lost Vermeer.'

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered." John says affected.

"Flattered? 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds.'" Sherlock snaps, putting the magazine down. "'What's incredible though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'."

"Hang on a minute, I didn't mean that." John amends, embarrased.

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way. Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister or…"

"Yeah, I know." John comments under his breath.

"Who's sleeping with who…"

"Whether the earth goes round the sun?" John offers.

"Not that again! It's not important!" Sherlock insists.

"Not import—It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?" John questions with a small shake of his head in actual concern for the tall man lying on the couch.

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it." Sherlock explains, pressing his hands to his forehead in annoyance and fatigue.

"Deleted it?" he says with a look.

Kathryn probably knew—not that it matters. Sherlock sits up from the couch, trying to shed some form of light to an oblivious flat mate. "Listen. This is my hard drive," he starts, pressing a finger to his forehead. "And it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful, really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish. That makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

John looks at him with a pointed look. "But it's the solar system!" he yells with an aggravated motion.

"Oh, hell! What does that matter?!" Sherlock grudges; putting his face in his hands, his shoulders slouched. He never had this much of a hard time explaining it to Kathryn; she always listened to him when he came to her. "So we go round the sun. If we went round the moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference!" he cries.

John looks away. Actually, it would. A totally huge difference. John thought, not bothering to start another one of their previous debates.

"All that matters to me is the work! Without that, my brain rots!" the madman ruffles his hair, frustrated. "Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!" he sulks as he again falls back on the couch, curling up in a tight ball like an eight-year old throwing a tantrum.

John hears the door downstairs open and shut. Great, Mrs. H could have him. I've had enough for one-day thanks. He thinks, taking the cue and striding towards the door.

Sherlock quickly turns around, "Where are you going?" he asks John suddenly with interest.

"Out! I need some air." John calls, heading for the stairs. Why's he going? He just got back.

"Oh, sorry love," Mrs. Hudson laughs as she bumps into the blonde man in the stairs. She carries with her a green shopping bag, making her way to 221B. "Woo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson greets him. "Have you two had a little domestic?" she asks playfully then going to Sherlock's chaotic kitchen. Knowing John has gone, Sherlock stretches out again on the couch more comfortably but decides against it, walking to the window, seeing John walk across the street. "Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more." She continues with a smile, unloading groceries unto the table.

"Look at that, Mrs. Hudson. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful?" Sherlock says with a grimace.

"Ooh, I'm sure something would turn up, Sherlock." She replies, finished with her task. "A nice murder. That'll cheer you up." Going to the door.

Sherlock huffs "Can't come too soon."

Nearing the door, she notices a certain bullet-ridden graffitied wall. "Hey, what have you done to my bloody wall?!" she exclaimed. Behind her, Sherlock smirks a little before turning to face his work. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" she declares, stomping downstairs.

Sherlock smiles again, then sighs, perfectly fine with the new addition to his wall. Severed heads, bullet holes and vandalism? Kathryn would be proud. He thinks, smirking, before a great explosion rattles his "peaceful" abode with a massive boom. Followed by the sound of glass shattering and a chorus of car alarms going off in the background.

Baker Street, the following day.

John Watson walks around the corner to Baker Street only to see a small crowd having gathered there, wanting to spectate the damage as emergency service crews go about their work. Bricks and shattered pieces of glass littered around the street, John looked to his left what was once the bricked up wall of the apartments across from them was now just a huge gaping hole in the building. Rubble was everywhere and it seems that most of everything inside is now obliterated. He ran quickly inside 221, climbing up the stairs in anxiety.

"Sherlock!" John calls. He entered their flat only to have a strange sight before him. It appeared that Sherlock was completely fine, better now actually as he was once again dressed in his suit. Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his chair plucking at his violin; the figure of Mycroft who sat across from his brother on John's seat, paid him only a look of acknowledgement.

"I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?" John said.

"Me? What—oh, I'm fine. Gas leak, apparently." Sherlock replied, looking down on the instrument on his lap. "I can't." he said as he pulled his attention back to his brother.

"Can't?" Mycroft responded quirking on eyebrow.

"Stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."

John had a concerned look on his face and was still quite unsure how Sherlock was absolutely calm about the explosion, as he can neither believe him coming out miraculously unscathed. Taking off his coat, he continued listening to the brothers' conversation.

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance." Mycroft said suavely. Twirling his umbrella in one hand.

Sherlock of course, having taken an offence to the comment retorts: "How's the diet?" faking interest.

"Fine." Mycroft replies, his eyes growing wide. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John?" he offers.

"What?" John asks.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock says coolly, continuing to play with the violin.

"No, no, no, no, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not while the Korean elections are so…" Mycroft stops himself, already divulging enough information. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" he says teasingly. "Besides, a case like this, it requires…legwork." Mycroft grimaces at the word.

Sherlock, perfectly content in ignoring his brother notices the discomfort of his friend as John rubs his sore neck. "How's Sarah, John? How was the li-lo?"

"Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa." Mycroft clarifies eyeing the time in his pocket watch. It appears he was already running behind schedule.

"Oh, yes, of course." Sherlock agrees glancing back.

"How—? Oh, never mind." He says, preferring not to get into another one of their discussions at the moment.

"Sherlock's business seems to be positively booming since you and he became…pals." Mycroft comments. "What's he like to live with?" Sherlock stops his mindless playing, as he knows what this line of questioning was leading up to. "Hellish, I imagine." Mycroft continues, undermining his brother more.

"I'm never bored." John answers. It was the truth; there was always something to do whether it was for a client, or for work or even babysitting his flatmate. There were loads to do.

"Good. That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft smiles, Sherlock; already regretting every second of opening the doors of his flat to the bane of his existence, swats the air with a violin's bow. Mycroft gets up from John's chair, about to give him a manila folder when his brother only shoots him a pointed look, Mycroft replying with another look of his own. Only to give the papers to John instead, hoping he would have better luck convincing his petty little brother.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant. Found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in." Mycroft Holmes recites.

"Jumped in front of a train?" John asked.

"Seems the logical assumption," Mycroft concurs.

"But…"

"But?"

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." Sherlock chuckles to the side, his friend was catching on quick.

"The MoD is working on a new defense system, the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John too, chuckles shortly, "That wasn't very clever." He smiles as Sherlock cleaned his bow with a small cloth.

"It's not the only copy." Mycroft provides snidely.

"Oh."

"But it is secret." Mycroft says more seriously. "And, missing."

"Top secret?"

"Very." The elder Holmes smiles. "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock." He says, noting his brother was still not paying much attention to him. He is so petty sometimes. "Don't make me order you."

"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock rejoins finally. Propping the violin to his chin. Once again, his brother's eyes seem to grow wider with another look on his face.

"Think it over." Mycroft reminded him. Maybe I should tell him? He thinks. It was only sporting to give him a heads up. "Goodbye, John. See you very soon. Oh, and Sherlock…?" he starts.

But being the total child Sherlock was, he merely chose to ignore his older brother as he haphazardly hacked away on the violin. Mycroft shoots him a tired look. "Never mind." He says rolling his eyes. "You'll find out soon enough anyway." He adds before collecting his coat and strolling out the flat. What a child.

John, feeling uneasy about the whole goings on as Sherlock finishes his clumsy piece with a scowl, his jaw hard. Sherlock Holmes breathes a small exhale of relief. Finally. "Er, you do know, he was trying to tell you something?" John says.

"Did you also notice him dropping the subject? It's probably nothing important anyway. You know, with the Korean elections…" Sherlock responds.

"So, why did you lie?" John asks, downstairs, the door closes with a thud, cuing Mycroft's exit. "You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding." John motions at the bullet-ridden wallpaper, "Why did you tell your brother you were busy?" he says with patience only he can give.

Sherlock's mouth quirks, "Why shouldn't I?" he answers unenthusiastically, scratching his head delicately with the bow.

"Oh." John says in realisation, his eyebrows shooting up. "Nice. Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere." He nods at Sherlock's uninterested glance when the man's mobile phone began to ring. Sherlock digs into his breast pocket before pulling out the phone and answering it quickly.

"Sherlock Holmes." He says then straightening in his chair, perking up as someone on the other end clearly piques his interests. "Of, course," he says, "How can I refuse?" The tall man stands up quickly. "Lestrade—I've been summoned." He explains. "Coming?"

"If you want me to." John replies getting up too. It's not like I had anything to do anyhow.

"Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger." He replies, returning with his coat in one arm.

Later that day, The New Scotland Yard.

"You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones." Detective Inspector Lestrade said as they walked across the department floor. "Obviously." Said Sherlock, both men walking swiftly into Greg's office with John trailing behind on his shorter legs. "You'll love this. That explosion," Lestrade started.

"Gas leak, yes?" the dark haired man questioned.

"No."

"No?" Asked Sherlock, surprised.

"No. Made to look like one." The detective inspector continued.

"What?" this time, it was John who spoke.

"Hardly anything left of the place, except a strongbox. A very strong box, and inside it, was this." explained Lestrade, handing the consulting detective a white envelope. "You haven't opened it?" Sherlock said, taking it from him. "It's addressed to you, isn't it? We've x-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped." Replied the DI.

"How reassuring." Sherlock stated dryly. He examines the envelope more closely under a lamp, his name written clearly and precisely on the back. "Nice stationery. Bohemian." He concluded.

"What?"

"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"No."

"She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, Meridian nib." Sherlock, provided.

"She?" John asked his 'colleague'.

"Obviously." Sherlock said.

"Obviously…" John scoffed. His colleague carefully sliced through the envelope cleanly. Both their eyes widening as Sherlock pulled out what was inside. "That…that's the phone. The pink phone." John said disbelievingly.

"What, from 'A Study In Pink'?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, obviously, it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like-"Sherlock stopped, turning to the Lestrade. "'A Study In Pink', you read his blog?" he asked. Surely, these people have better things to do. Don't they? He thought.

"Of course I read his blog. We all do." Lestrade answered, shrugging. "…Do you really not know that the Earth goes round the sun?" he asked, amused at the discovery. Behind the detective, Sargeant Sally Donovan giggled. John gave them both a look, and avoided Sherlock's glare, sheepishly.

Oh, great. Now I'm the bad guy. John thought sarcastically.

"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone. Which means, your blog has a far wider readership." Said Sherlock, continuing, hurriedly changing the subject, John trying not to look as guilty. Sherlock turns on the pink phone.

The phone comes to life. {You have one new message.} It says. Then;

# Pip. Pip. Pip. Pip. Pip.#

"Was that it?" John asked, confused.

"No, that's not it…" Said Sherlock. A new message is received before opening a picture of an empty room with peeling wallpaper, mouldy floors containing two mirrors and a fireplace.

"What in the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips?" Lestrade scoffed.

Behind the group, the woman finally decides that she had waited long enough for her presence to be unnoticed. Out of the corner, she strides forward, each step confident, calculated. Her eyes were a striking green. The woman wore well-used boots with short heels, a tight-fitting blouse of emerald green, high-waist designer jeans, a long grey pea-coat and a woollen yellow scarf. Her dark hair hung in loose in waves. Her very presence breathed an almost untouchable level of sophistication and mystery, even in casual dress.

"It's a warning. In history, select secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, or orange pips, things like that—five pips, though. Five. This, person, this bomber…he's warning us. It's going to happen again. They're going to blow something else up!" She spoke, her voice low and silky and harbouring mirth at the same time.

"I'm sorry detective inspector, I tried to stop her…" Anderson lamely said from behind her.

The woman steps forwards once more, standing directly in front of the consulting detective and eyes him quickly up and down and again before finally meeting his eyes. "I see you haven't changed." She says, hand on her hips, glaring at the thin man. The three policemen look at John who merely shrugged, their eyebrows shooting up.

"And I see that you're also very much the same since we last met, hair's longer though." The consulting detective retorted, his eyes never leaving her, studying every bit of the female.

Her eyes were far more greener than his memory of her seemed to serve, her make-up was as spotless as ever, her hair parted in her usual style. Her plump lips that were pressed into a thin hard line give a tiny quirk. Her glare softens into an affectionate stare. Her frown widens into a happy smile, teeth and all. Her cheeks redden as she laughs loudly. Sherlock joins her, his eyes bright, his smile, genuine. In an instant, the girl flings herself at the tall man, hugging him tightly, the tall man returning it just as much. The woman giggles and he slowly released her though keeping a hand on the small of her back. "Sherlock! I missed you!" breathed the girl and she kissed him on the cheek like kissing Sherlock Holmes was a commonplace occurrence. His right cheekbone buzzed warmly at her affection.

"Kathryn, you've been away far too long." He smiled. Behind them, John, Lestrade, Anderson and Sally gaped like fishes, staring wide-eyed.

"Um, hang on a minute," John says to her, "w-who—who are you?" he stutters.

"Oh, right. Sorry. Hello, I'm Kathryn Marion Derosiers Ashbury. But please, I'd prefer it if you call me Kathryn...I'm Sherlock's oldest friend." She puts out her hand to John who takes it, firmly giving it a shake.

"I'm—"

"Doctor John Watson, he's told me many things about you." Kat said nodding in Sherlock's direction.

"Good things I hope."

"Of course…well, in his own special way." She assures him.

"Wait, wait, are you by any chance related to Celia Derosiers? Famous novelist, wrote all those books?" Lestrade asked.

"Um, yes, that's my pen-name." She blushes.

"Oh, me and the missus love them, they're great,"

"I'm definitely glad that you like them then."

"We do, my personal favourite's Thief in Queen's Clothing. You are brilliant, absolutely brilliant." Greg gushed than turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, how come you never told us about having the famous writer for a friend?"

"How d'you even get another friend?" Sally said.

"Especially a girl." Anderson adds. Both Sherlock and Kathryn glare at them.

"We were neighbours." Sherlock informed.

"And how you've managed to stick with him through all these is beyond me." John said laughing.

Kathryn frowns, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with all of them referring to her friend like he was some robot. "Well, enough of this. We have a mystery to solve." Kat said.

"Yes, we do." Sherlock said and looked at Kathryn, "But you, don't."

"Actually, Lestrade will find that in fact, I am coming with. I think you'll find a certain Lord Arthur Ashbury has just graciously donated a large sum of money to Scotland Yard just yesterday. So unless, you'd chance upsetting the granddaughter of your benefactor...I'm coming with." she says, with a winning smile.

/A/N: I think it's fair to say that we've all been obsessed with Sherlock at this point. It's really one of my favourite shows and ultimately led to my love for Benedict Cumberbatch all the way back since I first saw the series in 2012.

Believe it or not, Kathryn was my very first OC that I came up with, and her story was the very first I wrote. Pretty much all of it is just short drabbles though and I've never really written or put her story together. As of now, it's all in my head or littered in separate word documents on my computer. It's really about time that I published this since I wrote this story probably three years ago now and she's just been going around and around my head.

So please be patient and stay tuned. Don't forget to review, or favourite or follow if you like the story. It would really help.

I know I have a lot of ground to cover.

I do not own any characters you might recognise from Sherlock, that is the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the fantastic Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. I only own my OC Kathryn.

-Many thanks, and happy fanfic hunting!

HannahBananasxx