The Surrogate Sister (a Sherlock fanfiction)

Chapter 7

Victoria steps out of the cab and walks into the pub. John and Sherlock trail behind. Inside is very dim with light only coming from the lamps hanging from the low ceiling. The wall facing the street is lined with small, rectangular windows with red-cushioned booths lying under them and all along the far left wall. There’s a scattering of dark wooden tables along the floor and a bar stretched along the right wall. It’s a small pub, family owned, but gets a lot of business because it’s near University College London. A man stands behind the bar, wiping down the counter. He is wearing a black t-shit, which is tight against his bulking muscles. He has tattoos all across his arms and back of his neck. His bald head shines against the overhead lights. A frown is plastered on his face, his whole attitude coming across as mean and tough. However, when he raises his head and recognizes Victoria, the biggest and kindest smile spreads across his face.

He walks around the bar and welcomes her with open arms. “Heeeyy!!!” He embraces her in a big bear hug.

“Hi Ricky!” Victoria laughs as she returns the hug.

“How’s my favorite American?” Ricky asks and squeezes her tighter.

“Well… I can’t really breathe.”

“Oh, sorry.” Ricky releases her, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “And why do I have this pleasure?”

“I need a small favor.”

A minute or so later, Victoria walks back over to John and Sherlock, who are still standing by the entrance. “Ok, so this is what I need you to do. Sherlock, follow Ricky to the backroom and just wait there.” Sherlock nods and walks away. She turns to John. “I need you to come with me to the bar.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

Ignoring the comment, Victoria turns and walks to the bar, John reluctantly follows. Victoria slides off her jacket and tosses it on one of the empty chairs. She steps behind the bar and throws a rag on her shoulder. John sits at one of the bar stools, hands clasped and placed on the counter.

“So, what will it be then?”

“Sorry?”

“To drink.” Victoria puts her hands on her hips. “We’re at a bar. You’ll look the least suspicious with a drink in your hand.”

“Fine, then. I’ll have a pint.”

Victoria gets John his beer, and then goes serves the other customers who come up to the bar.

About twenty minutes pass when a young man, in his mid-twenties, walks in. His jean jacket is worn over a dark purple hooded jacket, unzipped to show a low V-neck gray t-shirt. His hands are in the pockets of his dark gray jeans. His white, worn down Converse high-tops squeak against the wooden floor as he makes his way to the bar, head down, not bothering to look up. He sits in one of the stools, tousles his short, dark brown hair and places his head in his hands, elbows on the counter. Before he even gets a chance to think, a drink is placed in front of him.

Gin and Tonic.

He knows who’s standing in front of him without looking up.

“I thought I’d give you your favorite.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question, Andrew.”

The young man looks up at Victoria, who is cleaning a glass with a wet cloth, trying to look as nonchalant as she can. He glares at her. “Do you realize how dangerous this is?”

“Yes, I do.” Victoria puts the glass down and starts wiping the bar counter, leaning closer to Andrew. She speaks quickly in a hushed tone, her eyes peering about the room. “That’s why I need you to walk out that door, go to your left, walk around the corner, and enter the kitchen through the back. Wait there.” She walks away from him to help a customer at the other end of the bar.

Andrew sits there, staring at his drink. He holds the glass by the rim and rotates it back and forth before finishing it. Victoria watches as he places cash next to the empty glass, gets up, and exits out the door. Victoria looks at John, who had been observing the whole occurrence. She tilts her head slightly. John nods, gets up, and follows the young man out of the pub.

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Andrew opens the back door and enters the kitchen. He is met by a tall, lean man. His hands are in the pockets of his long coat and his dark curls rustle in the wind coming from the open door. John steps into the kitchen, closing the door behind him, and stands by the entrance.

Sherlock looks the young man over, eyebrow raised. “Male. Approximately 24 or 25 years old. You haven’t shaved in days, a sign of stress or sheer laziness. Your eyes are shot red with bags under them, indicating a lack of sleep. Your skin has slightly tanned, meaning you’ve spent some time where there’s sun, but not too much of it. America, maybe. Your shoes are worn and falling part. You’ve been doing a lot of running. And judging by the way you hold yourself, you must be highly trained in combat. Not in the military, no... Spy, perhaps? Assassin? No matter. Your jackets are loose enough to hide the British Army Browning L9A1 tucked into the back of your jeans. You are neither surprised nor intimidated by the fact that a complete stranger is able to pick out every little detail about you. However, you do seem very anxious, paranoid even, as if you know you are being watched.” He pauses and smirks. “You must be Andrew.”

Andrew gives the man a harsh look. “And you must be Sherlock.”

“Good. No need for introductions then.”

Victoria walks into the kitchen. John and Andrew’s eyes dart to her as she makes her way to the group. Sherlock, however, studies Andrew’s face, observing the sudden change of expression. He smirks.

“Ah, and by the way you look at Miss Victoria, I assume you to be a former–”

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” Victoria quickly interrupts. She turns to Andrew, her tone serious. “Why are you here? You know it’s not safe for you to be back. The whole point of leaving a country in the first place is for you to stay out of said country.”

“Do you really think I came here by choice?” Andrew snaps. “No matter how far I run or where I hide, he’s always going to find me.” His face burns with a mixture of anger and frustration as he glares into her eyes. “There’s no point, so why fight?” Victoria crosses her arms and Andrew raises his eyebrow. “And I can’t believe you’re stupid enough to come back as well.”

“I had nowhere else to go.”

“Bullshit.”

Victoria looks at him, anger in her eyes. She speaks in a cold, harsh tone. “Ava is dead.” Shock spreads across Andrews face. Victoria keeps eye contact, her angry gaze burrowing into his. “He killed her. And he gave me the pleasure of watching it all happen live on my computer screen. Lovely, right? So, tell me.” She pauses. “What else am I supposed to do?!” They stare at each other until Victoria looks away. “Besides, they already know I’m here.” She looks back up at Andrew, a pleading look now in her eyes. “Why else would I need to talk to you?”

Silence fills the room. Andrew and Victoria lock eyes, their expressions slowly changing to a sense of… longing. Their arms want nothing more than to reach out and embrace the other.

But they can’t.

And they know they can’t.