Chapter 1

John balanced the shopping in his arms as he stamped his shoes on the mat to get rid of the icy December slush. Backing through the door of 221B Baker Street, he almost ran into Mrs. Hudson as she came up behind him.

"Leave it," he snapped as she reached toward the pile of groceries balanced precariously in his arms. "I'm sorry," he apologized immediately. It wasn't her fault that two of the new-and-improved, greener-than-green biodegradable carrier bags had spontaneously exploded the moment he'd left Tesco Express. "It's alright, I can manage."

"Of course you can, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, and instead of taking some of the shopping off his hands she slipped something heavy into the last intact carrier bag, causing it to promptly split down the middle and vomit its contents onto the floor.

"Oh, dear," she said, covering her mouth in surprise, or maybe trying to hide a cheeky smile. "I'm sorry, John, but I've got my sister on the phone. Please tell Sherlock that's all I have. I couldn't find the brandy."

"Brandy? What?" John asked, but the woman was already gone. He looked down and saw a half-empty bottle of sherry lying among the spilled groceries.

He managed to make it up the stairs with everything in one trip, but with his hands full he couldn't reach the keys in his pocket. He kicked on the door to be let inside the flat. After almost a minute it swung open and Sherlock filled the frame, radiating frustration and nervous energy.

"Oh, it's you," he said, flipping his dark curly hair, turning on his heel. "I thought you were Mrs. Hudson."

John shuffled through the door behind him and immediately noticed how warm it was in the flat. "Yes, well, she's on the phone to her sister. She says she couldn't find the brandy, but she did have some sherry." He nodded down at the bottle he held in his hand

Sherlock snatched at it. "Why didn't you say?" He examined its label, sneering. "I bought her a bottle of Rémy Martin last Christmas. A waste of money, I see, if this is what she's used to."

"You don't even drink brandy," John reminded him, turning awkwardly to hook the door closed with his foot. "And never mind helping, I can manage."

Sherlock waved away the sarcasm. "The brandy's not for me," he said, lowering his voice. "It's for her."

He pointed into the living room and John turned to see a young red-haired woman sitting on the settee, watching them curiously. She smiled and gave a small wave. John smiled in return, noticing that she was quite pretty. "Who is she?" he asked in a whisper.

"Melinda Boyd."

"Is she… a friend of yours?" Sherlock had never brought a woman back to the flat.

"No, I've never met her before. She just showed up."

"Then why are you giving her a drink?"

Sherlock turned his back on the woman. "To warm her up," he whispered. "So she'll take her cardigan off."

John almost dropped the groceries on the floor. "So she'll…? Come into the kitchen," he hissed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please excuse us," he said to Melinda Boyd before following John through.

"Is that why it's so hot in here?" John asked, tipping the contents of his arms onto the kitchen table. He shook his jacket off his shoulders. "You want her to undress?"

"Glasses, glasses." Sherlock muttered, as he opened and closed cupboards, apparently having no idea where anything was in their kitchen. "Don't be repulsive," he said. "She doesn't have to undress for me to get a look at her box."

"Her… what?" John laughed incredulously. "Uh, first of all, yes she does. Secondly, this is not like you." He opened the cupboard above the sink and pulled out two small glasses. "At all."

"I'm not drinking," Sherlock said, accepting just one of the glasses.

John took the bottle of sherry. "I bloody am." He filled his glass and drank it in one go, wincing as it burned down his throat. Sherlock was right, it was terrible stuff, but he poured himself another.

"Ah, excellent idea. Why don't you come and say hello. If anyone can get a girl out of her cardigan, it's you."

John might have been flattered if he wasn't so confused. "Just tell me what the hell is going on."

Sherlock sighed and looked at him through the bottom of the glass like it was a telescope. "She was wearing an old men's overcoat and dragging a duffel bag on wheels. I thought she was one of my homeless associates. I've put out some feelers about that missing girl you're looking for."

"We're looking for," John reminded him. "Her parents have already paid us."

"Half. They've paid us half, and half of us are looking for her." Sherlock smiled at his own logic.

It was useless trying to argue. John downed the second drink. "So this Melinda…"

"Boyd."

"She doesn't have any information on the missing Fraser girl? Is she a client?"

"Not one of ours."

"What does that mean?"

"She's been asking for Mycroft ever since I let her in."

"Mycroft? She came here looking for your brother?" John snuck another peek at the woman. She'd tucked her feet up underneath her and was staring at the blinking lights on their Christmas tree. She might have been attractive, but she lacked the poise and polish of Mycroft's usual female acquaintances.

Sherlock nodded. "And every time she says his name she touches her cardigan pocket." He put his hand on his hip to demonstrate. "I can see the outline of a small box."

"Oh!" John laughed out loud with relief. He put the sherry down on the counter. "Her box."

"It's obviously for Mycroft."

"Obviously." John started putting the shopping away. "So of course you're dying to know what it is. What did he say?"

"What did who say?"

"Mycroft, when you told him."

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. "Why would I tell him? I don't run his answering service."

"You lied to me." The female voice made John jump. He turned and saw Melinda Boyd standing in the doorway. She'd obviously made an attempt with her appearance and her face was well made-up, but she still looked unkempt with her red curls half-brushed and her dark skirt and white blouse wrinkled under her faded blue cardigan. She was quite fierce as she stared accusingly at Sherlock. "You told me you phoned him. You said he was coming." Her northern accent was probably quite lilting when she wasn't so angry.

Sherlock didn't even have the decency to look contrite. "Don't you know it's rude to listen to other people's conversations?"

"You both stopped whispering two minutes ago, and there's no door." She put her hand in her pocket and touched the box Sherlock had talked about.

"My name's John Watson," he said, stepping between her and Sherlock. He extended a packet of milk chocolate digestives as a peace offering. "Fancy a McVitie? Maybe a cup of tea?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, but took the biscuits and opened the packet. "Do you know Mycroft Holmes?"

He laughed. "I don't think anyone really knows Mycroft Holmes." He ignored Sherlock's harrumph behind him.

"Could you call him for me? I need to see him."

"Why?"

"She wants money," Sherlock interjected, sounding bored. "Obviously."

"I'm not looking for a handout," Melinda said quickly. "I have something to sell him. I know he'll want to buy it."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. "Maybe I want to buy it."

"I was told not to show it to you."

Sherlock pretended to laugh. "Told by whom? Mycroft?"

Melinda Boyd pushed two biscuits into her mouth and wolfed them down, almost without chewing. John wondered when she'd last had a decent meal.

"By someone who told me not to trust you, and you've already proven them right."

This is my first attempt at Sherlock - I'll try to make it a good mystery but hopefully it's just fun to read :)