The Flower Seller ( WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 17

Sherlock returned a few minutes later, struggling to climb the steps into the carriage. "Remind me not to take such a severe beating in future," he announced. "We are no longer needed here."

Their carriage pulled up outside Baker Street shortly after midnight, Waverly hoping Sherlock would be able to leave them for a few moments to say goodnight. He had held his side for most of the journey, grimacing whenever the carriage jolted over uneven cobble stones, Waverly knowing she should go with him rather than stay for a few more delicious moments alone with Nicole. "Would you like to join us?" she said, not knowing what else to say.

"I will return tomorrow. I have a hundred questions which need to be answered."

"You did well," Sherlock added, letting out a short groan. "Forgive me. Tomorrow we shall begin anew."

She watched as Waverly helped her uncle out of the carriage, watched as they entered 221 Baker Street, watched as the door closed. Her heart now lay behind that door, as it always had, the taste of Waverly still on her lips, the night one of the craziest she had ever experienced. She had most assuredly had an adventure.

As she lay in bed she still could not fit together all the pieces to get to how he, Sherlock had done it. She knew this was all down to him, his observations, his theories, his calculations on how others might operate, but for the love of money where she ended up, how she ended up, made no sense.

Her discussions with Lestrade, her own plans on how to entice Blackwood were so very far from what went down this very evening. She had wrongly assumed Blackwood would not be tempted to act rashly, giving her time to relay her findings to Sherlock, and time to coordinate any move she might make with Lestrade. Instead, she had been confronted with the false building, the mausoleum, Fortescue, Eliza, Adler, royalty, plus Lestrade and his men turning up, although she was more than grateful for their timely arrival. It had all been out of her control. Every aspect running away from her.

It was no use, there was no way she could sleep, returning to the study to resume her meticulous research of Sherlock's notes by way of distracting her mind from brooding on what happened. At four in the morning, as her eyelids headed south, she stumbled across one small, torn piece of paper. On it was a cross, Sherlock's initials at the top, Irene Adler's at the bottom. To the left were Waverly's, to the right hers. In the middle, where the lines intersected, was the single initial M. As with everything else in Sherlock's meticulous mind, it made absolutely no sense. She placed it on top of the pile of papers to the right of her desk, the ones she had read so far, her body pleading to get rest.

Entering Watson's drawing room the next day she was surprised not to see Waverly. "She has returned to Baker Street," Sherlock said, "as I should."

She forced herself not to look disappointed. "I need to know how you did it."

Holmes winked. "Smoke and mirrors."

"Bare facts that's all I require."

Sherlock cast his eye over her for a moment, as if pondering what aspects to provide. At last his expression seemed to suggest he was clear as to what she should know. "On your mention of Bayswater I knew Blackwood's intentions. A well-known cut through between buildings, a deliberate ploy to throw off anyone in pursuit."

"That's it."

"Mrs Adler gave us the signal, remember. Tonight. Had you not relayed her message I believe our chances of capturing Blackwood would have diminished significantly.

"And, Reordan. She mentioned him. Was he there?"

Sherlock fumbled for his pipe. "It's here somewhere. No matter. Reordan is a different matter."