Seductress, Soldier, Killer (A Sherlock Holmes Fan Fiction)

Chapter One

My phone rang in my pocket, its newness felt uncomfortably large in my palm; the persistent caller however, was obviously not deterred by this. Third time unlucky and third cigarette in the rain swept gutter, I finally managed to pick up the phone.

“Evangeline.”

His officious and frankly irritating voice, lathered with superficial lubricant to impress an imperious Government, (that he all but was,)slithered through the speaker.

“Mycroft, I’ve been waiting a long time out here, what exactly am I doing?”

I had received a text message from the older Holmes brother and was standing outside St Bart’s, having being told that I wasn’t allowed to use my phone inside the Hospital; I’d rather grumpily been forced outside into the dreary rain-soaked street.

“I’ve just spoken to my younger brother, and I need you to go back to the flat, he’s somewhat unstable-.”

I sighed loudly and a young doctor who had walked past me stared in inquisition, I merely ignored him. “-What kind of unstable are we talking about here Mycroft? And why did you call me and not John, I thought he was in tonight? I’m not Sherlock’s babysitter.”

“I am aware of that, however Mr Watson is not answering his phone; I believe he is with a woman. And you know what kind of unstable Evangeline.”

I hated it when people called me by my full name, it sounded too formal and snotty, although knowing Mycroft, he’d probably done it for that very reason.

“I’ll go home and check on him if it makes you feel any better, though I don’t know why you’re trusting me, considering that on a scale of instability I-”

“Evan please.”

Mycroft never said please.

Not ever.

“I’m catching a cab now.” If Mycroft was right and this really was a ‘risk night’ as he and John had termed it, then Sherlock would probably be halfway high by now, I let that carry me into the back of the taxi, as I instructed the driver to take me to 221B Baker Street.

Stepping out of the cab, paying the driver and promptly standing in a massive puddle directly outside my house of residence, I looked up at the mid-London terrace, my eyes rolling upwards to the living room window and seeing the curtains closed and a lack of silhouettes moving inside.

Sherlock was probably in the kitchen or in his study, in which case there were plenty of chemicals and substances he could willingly abuse.

I unlocked the door with my silvery key and with a bump into the door, heaved it two-thirds of the way open, wiping my feet on the carpet quietly and waiting in silence to listen out for any movement overhead.

When all I heard was a gentle tapping of two blunt objects together, I wasn’t immediately concerned, Sherlock Holmes was often silent and could indeed remain motionless for days, the longest time John and I’d recorded (it’d been mostly John), had been sixty-seven hours, when finally dehydrated and exhausted, he’d fallen asleep.

Quietly pressing on up the seven stairs to my room, where I quickly threw my phone and coat, I continued to ascend the additional three to the living room and I peered through the ajar door at the top, holding my breath.

Upon seeing what was happening in the room I swiftly swung the door open on its protesting hinges (I’d have to remind John to oil them) and swept over to Sherlock who had his elbows against his knees, chin resting against pressed fingertips and a sealed volumetric flask on the coffee table in front of him, a clear fluid in it that most definitely was not water, at least not completely. A drinking glass glittered in the firelight, beside the flask, its contents undoubtedly the same.