Royalty

Prologue

"Darling ... Come on, that's it, now your eyes are open."

At first all I see is a pair of drop-dead gorgeous chocolate brown eyes ... and then I recognize the face. And the lilting Irish accent. He realizes that I recognize him.

"Now you see me." He grins.

And I fear for my life.

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My name is Astra Fawkes. At least, that's the name I go by. I don't know what my real name is.

I remember nothing of my childhood, or at least, almost nothing. I have vague memories of moors, and of a house.

My biological family gave me up. I don't remember them, nor do I feel they're worthy of remembering, if my foster family's words are anything to go by.

My foster family ... they were a piece of work. I ran away, they brought me back. Forcibly. I ran away, they brought me back, I ran away, they brought me back, wash, rinse, repeat.

It was horrible there. Eventually they sent me to a different family. And that family was even worse. I ran away, and this time, I stayed away.

For a little while, I managed to gain some pity from teachers and professors, and I actually had a decent high school and college education. Neither school ever knew that I had no home. No family.

I don't even really know how old I am. But they place me at around 25-27. Who's 'they'? Well, that's one of my favorite stories to tell.

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It was a cold night in London. I suppose most are, but ... it feels colder if you have no home to take refuge in.

I still managed to keep a job, but the pay was nowhere near enough to afford a flat. I managed to collect a few possessions, though. I had a blanket, my degrees, a change or two of clothes, a water bottle, an old coat.

One thing I did not have was friends.

Anyway.

On this particular night, I had tried to catch a cab. The cabbie, after a ... disagreement of sorts, dumped me out of the car.

He looked at me like I was stupid.

I'm not stupid.

I resigned myself to the fact that I would be spending my night in this particular back alley.

And thank heavens I did.

At first all I heard were fast steps, and the laughter of two men. I listened closely, and watched as they rounded the corner.

Oh.

I didn't know the shorter of the two, but I recognized the taller man. I read his blog when I got the chance.

Sherlock Holmes.

I was mostly fascinated that his mind deduces and problem-solves the same way mine does. Throughout my life, I'd always been assured that I was the smartest person in the room. I never met anyone who convinced me otherwise. But Sherlock Holmes ... well.

I took a look at the shorter man.

Tan that stops at the wrist, regulation tread and haircut, perfect posture, and he's holding his left shoulder a little awkwardly.

Injured soldier home from either ... hmm. Afghanistan or Iraq?

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" I asked aloud. Both men turned so quickly I could almost hear their necks snap.

"What?" Sherlock asked. The other man looked at him and then back to me.

"Twice in one day - what?" he asked.