Alone Protects Me {Sherlock Fanfic}

the second

I coolly stepped out of the cab onto the loose gravel of the unpaved drive that pulled up closely to the house, and pulled my overcoat tighter around my body. I watched as the cab drove away, rattling down the path, and thought to myself that perhaps this wasn't such a grand idea and that I could solve the whole case myself without speaking with Mr Holmes, for sure. But some great force inside me turned me round to gaze upon the weathered door of the refurbished house, which stood erect and blunt amidst the clearing of forest surrounding it. I knew I had nothing to lose.
A small sigh escaped my lips as I approached the door. I couldn't help but notice that the knocker was just a little crooked. The framework of the entry was worn out and had massive scratches etched into it: the door itself was in an even worse state, with chinks and crevasses from rigorous use. Around the knocker and doorknob, the black paint was faded to a dingy grey. And the knob itself was tarnished, bore scratches, and showed signs of soon falling to pieces. How often John Watson himself must have taken hold of that very knob to alert Mr Holmes of a case or rush out of the house in a hurry just to catch up with the man. At the thought, an eerie shiver sent up my spine—not merely because the doorknob was cold as ice, but because it was the same knob that was touched by a man who was now dead.
The next moment, I was taking the knocker in my hand, as I shook those dark thoughts from my mind. It was no time whatever to be getting sentimental: in fact, there was no need for it at all—I didn't even know the man, aside from what I concluded about him on my own from his blogs. Besides, sentimentality was for the weak and ill-brained. One with a mind like mine couldn't possibly tarry with such trifling things as feeling and emotion—it was all idle prattle. It got in the way of opening your mind to more important things and storing valuable data, which in my own opinion, was key to being the person that I was today.
     Before the knocker was in my hand for even a second, an older woman, mid-sixties, with wrinkles that overcame her face—but not in an unattractive way—opened the door wide. Her face was lit up like a twinkling star in a clear night sky, her eyes gleaming.
     "That man never ceases to amaze me," she sighed in astonishment from her thin, paling lips. They curled into a tight smile as she inspected me within seconds.
     She was the landlady of 221b Baker Street flat in London - some miles from here - Mrs Hudson: mentioned a few times in Watson's blogs, highly praised, did anything she could to help "her boys," yet refused to be considered a housekeeper.  They must've insisted in keeping her with them in this house, now she had nowhere to live when 221b was blown to smithereens. And they loved her so, surely because of all the three of them had been through together. She was a dear friend to both Sherlock and Watson.
The crow's-feet beside her aging eyes foretold of the many things she had seen come through that door, and her calloused hands showed signs of her having handled guns before. The permanent scarring left on her knuckles meant she had even been forced to make use of her hands in emergencies.
Immediately I understood that Mrs Hudson meant Mr Holmes before she mentioned his name. It was obvious, of course. What other tenant that she had living in those flats would she praise ever so highly of.
I grinned indifferently, trying to appear pleased with her. But I only wanted to get right to the point, not dilly round with trivial salutations.
"No, he really doesn't ever cease to amaze me," she repeated, half to herself this time. She looked back at me, and popped up. "Well, now, Sherlock—he's been expecting you."
Of course he was. Nothing could ever come as a surprise to him, could it? I had, in fact, seen him peering through the narrow window above the front door, when I had arrived. He had on a straight face with one conspicuous brow raised aloft, as if questioning every step I took.
I looked up again in the direction of the very same window for but a moment, then smiled as brightly as I could manage at the elderly woman, without wounding my reputation or pride. "Shall I see him, then, Mrs Hudson?"
My cheeks started to hurt. As soon as she turned away with a "Yes! Of course! This way, dear!" I let my mouth droop into its usual determined, set line. Creases formed on my forehead and about my eyes: I was readying myself for the man I was about to meet face to face for the first time in my whole life since living in London.
     She led me through what appeared to be an entrance hall of sorts, to the side of which stood the stairs that led to the bedrooms above on the second story. Straight away was the kitchen and first sitting room, and her own quarters beyond that.
We stood in the entry for some time, waiting, I suppose, for Holmes himself to appear. It was vain hope.
Mrs Hudson peered up the stairs, a query behind her eyes, her mouth gaping open somewhat, as if silently calling for Holmes to come down. But after a moment or so passed, the older woman shook her head and said to me in a mutter, "I had hoped perhaps he'd be in a better mood today enough to be kind and come greet our guest, especially since you're here to help him with this case on dear Jo–well, you know."
"Yes, Mrs Hudson. May God rest his soul," I replied softly.
"Yes, well, we better get to it then, since he's not coming down from his room. He's in such a mood sometimes."
Understandably so, Mrs Hudson, I thought.
We travelled up the stairs until we came to a particularly decrepit hallway, poorly lighted with a single sconce some distance down the hall. The door, to what I observed to be the "case room," too, had proper scuffs, and the knob's gilded exterior was worn away to make a rubbish hand print. To my immediate left was another door, perhaps an entry to his private sector of the house—a bedroom and personal sitting room.
"This is—" she began.
"—Mr Holmes's, I know," I finished as I studied the hall with a scrutinizing eye. She was taken aback suddenly and stuttered.
Finally, Mrs Hudson, shaking herself from my directness which she must have assumed only from Mr Holmes, knocked once, and when no answer was given, she promptly knocked again. She huffed.
"He amazes me, but that doesn't mean he does not confuse me," she admitted. "He's always got a mysterious air about him that I can never figure out alone. It's too bad Dr Watson's not here to help Sherlock out and tame 'im a bit."
"Yes," I replied absently. "Of course."
As she reached out her hand for a third knock, the door swiftly opened to reveal a tall, wiry fellow, with thick, dark curls that hung about his face. He furrowed his brows sternly at me, inquisitive of my arrival yet none too surprised about it. His hands were broad and rough, with long spindly fingers; and just by looking at those hands made me believe he'd seen a good steady fight or two. He looked a sturdy man, but not quite reliable in health. He had, evidently, a history of drug abuse, by the way his hands twitched and his eyes very subtly darted from place to place beyond Mrs Hudson and I—he was, no doubt, still suffering from withdrawals or even just now coming down from a high.
I squeezed past Mrs Hudson, standing before Mr Holmes with dignity and allowing myself to look up at him straight in the eye, with my chin held high: I wasn't intimidated by him.
We were only half a meter away from each other. His eyes were sharp and piercing. We stood, scrutinizing each one's face for some time, never daring to break our gaze.
     "Who is this, Mrs Hudson, and why is she here?" he inquired quickly, still looking me in the eye.
     She was beginning to answer, sputtered when he cut her off.
     "Never mind that now, I know who she is." He turned about, without inviting me in. He wasn't a man of applying certain manners or politeness in the face of being threatened by another's mind. In fact, he never showed such manners to anyone, no matter how small or large their brain capacity was compared to his indomitable one. Two could play at that game. "Miss Da-"
"Darcie Frill," I cut in, taking a look around the room. "And I hope, Mr Holmes, that your large ego and ever-inflating head don't get in the way of your allowing Detective Inspector Lestrade to aid you in solving the case of your friend John Watson's death." He gave me a disgusted glare from the corner of his eye, from the chair he had flopped into. "Seeing as you're obviously not fit to take the case alone." I took a turn about the room, examined its contents.
"Mrs Hudson," called Mr Holmes to the landlady who now stood at the threshold of the flat, "two cups of tea, please, and do be sure you close the door on your way out." Mr Holmes gave her a forced grin—eerily malignant—and pressed his lips against the crease of his folded hands. He wanted her out of the room so we could have a nice little chat.
"What, in your silly little mind, makes you think I want your help solving my frien—colleague's—death? Forgive me, let me correct myself, I don't need your help."
     "I believe you're mistaken, Mr Holmes—"
     "Sherlock will do, thank you," he deliberately interrupted. He was as passive and cold as stone, which made my blood begin to boil, and he continued, "I don't take pleasure in the formality."
     I only rolled my eyes. "I believe you do need my help. Above anyone else's," I replied, indignant.
     He threw me a subtly presumptuous look. "You think your mind could possibly beat mine. You think highly of your little brain, and if there was anyone that I ever needed help from now that Dr Watson is gone, you think it should be yourself that I pick from among all those in England. But, in my rejecting your offer, of sorts, you will return to your quaint, modest little flat an hour's drive from this establishment, and question every motive you had of coming here in the first place, which, might I add, is a very good question I am now asking myself on your behalf. Am I not mistaken, Mrs Callentine?" He looked at me, finally, with an imperious gleam behind his eyes.
"You are an arrogant, pompous arse, and you know it, don't you?" I inquired of him, rhetorically. "And, I'll have you know, I am already asking myself that question, Mr Holmes. So, you might want to think it all through before you start assuming things wrong, and you might want to refrain from calling me—" I paused, taken aback suddenly. "Wait, Mrs Callentine—how did you—that's not—"
"Ah, yes, I meant Miss Frill. No worries, my mistake," he added absently, getting up from his chair to make his way into the kitchen.
He knew a lot more about me than I thought or wanted him and anyone else to know. And I desired his immediate explanation.
"No, not a mistake," I said. Stepping slowly toward him, I demanded, "Tell me what you know. How?"
"It's quite simple really." Taking up a small spy glass in his fingers, he turned to me and gave me a deep look of cunning. My eyes widened. I had given my past away just by stepping through that door.