Mists of London Chapter Six

[nevermoreraven]

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: Teen
DISCLAIMER: If this were written by the actual people who run it at the BBC, there would be an Irene Adler by this point.  There is not, and hopefully will never be.
Summary: Meetings and answers?

John walked in on Lestrade talking to the poor, frightened woman who looked so much like Sherlock that his heart ached.  Piercing grey eyes drifted up to him, mouth opened slightly in shock, and the next second she was exclaiming, "Safe."

"I'm sorry, what...?" Lestrade asked kindly, then turned to look at the two of them.  He looked shocked to see John, which wasn't really much of a surprise, since it had been forever since anyone, really, had seen John.  "What are you doing here?"

"I would think it would be obvious," Mycroft stated dryly, twirling his cane dramatically.

Her face twisted slightly upon seeing Mycroft, so as a distraction John asked bluntly, "Who are you?"

She looked up at him (pleading, lost, lonely, amused) and answered, in a voice lower than a usual woman's and quite possibly what he'd imagined Sherlock's would sound like if he'd been born a girl, "I was hoping you could tell me that."

"What?"  His brow furrowed.  He felt like an idiot, lost behind Sherlock again, but the feeling was familiar, comforting.  His psychologist would have a field day with that.  If he saw her again, which was unlikely if he could help it.

"Well, the two of you," her nose twitched as she suppressed a sneer in Mycroft's direction, "...obviously came to see me specifically, so..."

"How did you...?" he began to ask, but was interrupted by the woman's voice, explaining kindly.

"The Detective Inspector here was surprised to see you.  Neither of you are policemen.  Yet he knows you.  You've come before, but not in a long while.  You came straight here, ergo you were coming to see me.  Most people who visit others specifically know them, therefore I hoped you knew me and were able to tell me who I was.  It's essential data, you see."  She tried to act flippant, and the words, oh, the words were a deep, painful ache, but the aloofness didn't fool this time.  John saw how deeply scared this young woman was.

He probably wasn't supposed to tell her this, but he was going to do it anyway.  Mycroft wouldn't be happy with him, but then Mycroft could just bugger off.

"You're remarkably like a person we used to know, except he happens to be male and dead," he continued bluntly.

She wasn't expecting that.  Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened, and he could practically hear the whirling of the gears in her brain.  Just like he had done with Sherlock when he was alive.

"That explains quite a lot.  I suppose you'll want someone to have a look at me and make sure I'm not just in drag."

"If you would," Mycroft answered, irritated.  John could feel the glare in his back, but took no notice.  The woman giggled.

Lestrade sighed and stood up, the chair dragging gratingly along the ground.  "I'll go get someone."