James took a deep sigh as he looked at his phone.

The board said her plane was hours late, but after 10 minutes she hadn't called to warn him of the delay. That wasn't like her.

"Oh! Excuse me!" A man huffed, racing past him with a battered old suitcase. On his way home to his wife and children. Two. One already an adolescent...

Wait. Give her time. Just a little more time.

It had been foolish to go to the airport early. He shouldn't have left so early...

His phone rang.

James cleared his throat before answering. "Yes?"

"Hello, James? It's me, I'm...Well, I don't..."

The light quiver in her voice fell like lead in his chest.

"It's alright, Molly. I know." His free hand slipped into the pocket of his sleek brown jacket. "Simple deduction. It's ok."

A pause.

"I hope he takes care of you." He added softly.

"Oh, God, James, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so..."

"It's ok." He smiled ruefully. "It was worth a shot."

Over the bustling noise of the airport he could hear a plane take off in the distance. James hoped the old chap got to check-in in time.

"Be happy, Molly Hooper."

"You too, James. And...Thank you."

"Your Excellency? Is everything alright?" Ginevra stepped out of the limousine as soon as she saw the ambassador walk out of the aiport alone. "Is Miss Ooper's plane delayed?"

"Yes, Ginevra, I'm afraid it is. Indefinitely so." His clenched jaw softened as he saw his assistant's eyes grow wider and fall in understanding.

James looked at the thin box on the passenger's seat of his car, and Ginevra followed his gaze.

"Would you like me to return the dress for you, your Excellency?" She asked quietly.

He hesitated.

"No." James shook his head firmly. "I'd like you to have it."

Ginevra's head shot up, her curls bouncing around her face. "Me, your Excellency? But..."

"I need cheering up, and right now that means giving something nice to a person who will appreciate it. And besides," He added as a bodyguard opened the car door for them. "You've always looked beautiful in blue."

.

.

.

"How did it go?"John asked with attempted indifference, lounging on an armchair with a newspaper in hand as Sherlock stepped into the rooom.

The consulting detective took off his coat and threw it so it landed effortlessly on the coathanger. "I'm sorry to say the quality of the tea in the morgue might take a turn for the worse, my dear Doctor." He replied with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

"Ah! Good." Knowing better than to inquire any more, John simply continued reading, a small smile playing around his lips as his friend walked to the bedroom.

"I'm tired, I'm off to bed."

"I bet you are, you dog."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Wish a dramatcally exasperated sigh, Sherlock closed the bedroom door behind him.

The curtains were pulled, so only a thin ray of light seeped into the room he knew so well, casting soft shadows on the sheets that now called his weary bones to rest, lightly shining on the bedside table and the letter that rested on it.

In the shadows, Sherlock's face darkened. Slowly he unbottened his shirt as he walked towards the bed, his eyes on the envelope.

His shirt touched the floor at the same time his fingers touched the paper.

Once more he opened the envelope and looked at the photograph within, then turned it to examine yet again the symbol on its back: a wolf with its teeth bared. His grip tightened, slightly crumpling the picture in his hand before he shoved ito in a drawer and slammed it shut.

Heavily he fell onto the bed, then turned to face the ceiling. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Sleep. Now.

His eyes opened.

In the silence and shadows of his chamber, Sherlock stayed awake.

.

.

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To be continued in: "Who's Afraid?" (coming soon)