Secrets (Sherlock)

A talk

Quinn shut her front door, and shrugged off her black coat. She had had that coat forever, and the sight of the yellowed buttons against the pitch fabric always gave of a comforting feel for her, even with all of its patches and stitches.

Hanging her coat on the hanger, she went into the kitchen to get a drink.

She looked over at the clock on the wall beside her. 21:26. Almost nine thirty. Great time for alcohol.

Pulling out a new bottle of red wine, Quinn poured a glass and walked into her living room.

There was a note on the table. Quinn smirked. "Changing your MO, Mycroft. I don't like it."

She took the envelope, and pushed her delicate finger under the porcelain paper. The seal ripped, and she pulled the paper out of it.

Inside was a slip of paper, printed delicately in the center was an address. Quinn sighed, knowing that no matter how much she hated him, she would have to see him.

"And back we go," she said, walking out the door, grabbing her coat on the way.

Hailing a cab, she felt her phone bus in her pocket. She fished around for it, before finally emerging victorious. She saw that it was Sherlock. She answered. "Yeah?"

"What are the tattoos on your neck for?"

The cab pulled up, and she stepped in. "Needy now, are we? The two tallies are meant for the two most important people in my life." She moved the phone to her shoulder, telling the cab driver the address.

"In a cab now, are we?" he said in a mocking tone. "Who are they?"

The cab lurched to a start, driving off down the road. "Now, where's the fun in telling you?"

Bring. The dial tone rung in Sherlocks ear.

After returning to the living room, he found john sitting reading the paper. He managed to figure out that she had left right after he finished stitching her up.

But, no matter what he did, his mind just kept going back to those tattoos. The neck was one of the most painful places to get a tattoo, so it must have been really necessary.

After a while, he couldn't help it, and called her.

At least now he had an idea as to what it was.

It took about twenty minutes, but, eventually, Quinn found herself in a small cafe in the middle of Hampstead.

"Thanks, mate," she said, passing the driver £20, and walking into the cafe.

Quinn laughed at the thought of meeting Mycroft in a little cafe. "Well," she tried to convince herself. "There's a first time for everything."

Thinking about it, this did seem rather fishy. Mycroft would never just send her a notice. No, he would pick her up, not caring what she wanted.

Looking through the window, she sees another face. A familiar face of a certain Irish criminal.

Smiling, she heads into the cafe and sits across her good friend Jim. "Did'ja miss me?" She said, as she harrumphed into her seat. Jim quirkier his signature creepy smile, and leaned forward, placing his elbows against the table. "Of course. How have you been? A little bird told me that you were working a case."

"Lemmy guess. That little birdie is now dead with a sniper bullet in her head. I don't know what your playing at Jim, but I got out of the criminal business a while ago."

"I know, Q. Trust me, I do. But, I really need your help. I'm planning something, and I need your help."

Quinn shot him a questioning glance, looking him dead in the eye. That permanent glisten of confidence was evident in his eye, but so was a look of pleading. "What is it?"

Jim smiled victoriously,and slouched casually back into his seat. "I need a pink phone."