How They Met Alice (BBC Sherlock Fanfiction)

Chapter 16

(Alice’s POV STILL: )

MORNING

We were all sitting at a table in a café the next morning. The night before I had gone home and got a change of clothes and a shower since I skipped the day before. I was wearing a purple jumper and black skinny jeans and my regular boots.

John was tucking into a cooked breakfast and had a mug of tea in front of him while Sherlock was drumming his fingers impatiently on the table across from John waiting for the pink phone – which was lying on the table – to ring. I sat next to Sherlock, sipping my coffee.

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asked, referring to John’s earlier complaints about hunger.

“Mmm. You realize we’ve hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?” He asked, shoveling another forkful in and looking thoughtful. “Has it occurred to you...?” He began after swallowing.

“Probably.” Sherlock interrupted.

“No – has it occurred to you that the bomber’s playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid’s shoes – it’s all meant for you.” John said, still thinking.

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock answered, him and I both smiling slightly.

“Is it him, then? Moriarty?” John asked again, getting a bit solemn.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock replied. For the first time I didn’t understand. I gave Sherlock a confused look and John was about to explain when the mobile beeped a message alert. Sherlock switched it on and it sounded two short Greenwich pips, followed by the longer tone, and a photograph of a smiling middle-aged woman appeared on the screen.

“Connie Prince…” I murmured, not loud enough for even Sherlock to hear me.

“That could be anybody.” Sherlock complained. I rolled my eyes. He never watched the telly.

“Well, it could be, yeah. Lucky for you, I’ve been more than a little unemployed.” John said, taking a bite and waving his fork around in the air.

“How d’you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly.” John replied, standing up and walking to the counter. Smiling at the woman behind the counter, he picked up a remote and switched on the small television that hung on the wall. He switched through the channels a couple of times before finding what he wanted. The woman from the photograph was on the screen, partway through her make-over show. She was gesturing to someone off-screen.

“Thank you, Tyra! Doesn’t she look lovely, everybody, now?” The woman announced on the telly. The pink phone rang. “Anyway, speaking of silk purses and sows’ ears...” She continued. I handed Sherlock the phone and he answered it.

“Hello?"

“This one...is a bit...defective. Sorry.” An old woman spoke tremulously in a Yorkshire accent. “She’s blind. This is...a funny one.” John walked back over to the table. “I’ll give you...twelve hours.” Sherlock and I looked at John as he sat down again. The woman was speaking a bit more quietly than the others, so I leaned closer to the phone, earning a suggestive look from John.

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock asked.

“I like...to watch you...dance.” She replied. I scowled. Sherlock lowered the phone and shook his head at John, then dropped the phone onto the table as he turned to look at the TV.

“...and I see you’re back to your bad habits.” Connie said. As the footage continues, a voiceover replaced her voice and a news headline at the bottom of the screen read: Make-over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48. “...continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programmes, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead...”