The New Watson

JBW1992

The plane ride had been a short one, but John was ready for it to be over. The entire ride had been spent listening to Sherlock mumble about various random things, one of which being "what IS the center of the solar system?...". As John briskly walked from the plane through the airport, he also couldn't shake off the feeling that this was NOT a good idea. The last time he had seen this person had been a total fail. He had tried to apologize, even though he was fairly certain that it wasn't his fault. She had refused to listen, and had refused to be sorry. That was several years ago.

"John. I will ask you one more time. Who are we going to see?"

"I don't know. Figure it out." John was tired of being asked the same question. He needed some tea, and maybe some sort of alcoholic drink after this was all over.

"It is a girl. She lives in a farming suburb of Paris, and you know her," Sherlock stated.

"Yes."

"Is she an ex, or an ex of a dear friend, or..."

"Nope."

"Do you know her well?"

"Unfortunately, I know her better than I would like to."

"OK, well, let's see. She is a government agent for Britain-"

"And France. Yes."

"And France, and she has red hair."

"Sherlock, I don't see you getting anywhere with these questions."

"Shh. I'm thinking."

John rolled his eyes. It was always like this.

They exited the airport and entered the crisp, warm, French air. It smelled slightly of bread and sausage, but most of the air smelled like a typical city, whatever that smell was. They found a taxi car and waved it down. The driver was a bit shocked when John asked if he would drive to Andrezel. That was a 50 minute drive south from their current location.

"Well... I'm sorry to inconvenience you, but I only go as south as Guignes. Andrezel is basically a farm and an intersection. You'll have to walk from Guignes."

"I guess that'll have to be good enough. Please."

They started another long journey. John would have liked to have taken a nap, but the anxiety created from the journey, and the agent, kept him wide awake. He stared out the window at the passing scenes. Most of the ride was spent in the city, and in suburbs of Paris itself. But, in the last minutes of the ride they drove through spacious farms growing wheat, sugar beets, and vineyards with millions of grapevines. It was beautiful and free. There was so much clear, corn blue sky visible, that John was unsure how the agent lived here, in the sun. She belonged in a dark, dank pit, many miles beneath the surface of the Earth.

"Sorry, lads, this is it. €28, please."

John handed the driver the money and they exited the cab. They had a long walk ahead of them...

But it was over too quickly. John's hands started to sweat, as they always did when she was near. His head started pounding before she was in sight. Of course, she wasn't in sight. The pair approached an old, abandoned, brick firefighter station with a garage on the bottom level, and two stories stacked on top. There was one single garage door dominating the left side of the bottom floor, and a door was set into the right side. Sherlock examined the skid marks on the ground leading into the garage.

"One wheel. Motorcycle."

"Yes. That would be her..." John trailed off.

Sherlock thought in his mind. She is impulsive or reckless. Or both.