Orphan on Baker Street

Eighteenth: Orange

The cab driver slows to a stop just in front of Scotland Yard. Sherlock pays him as I quickly get out and adjust my skirt. When I turn to look at him behind me, I see him rush in front of me. He moves his hands to my collar.

"What are you doing?" I ask, nonchalantly glancing around at the few pedestrians.

"Unbuttoning your shirt a bit. Nice outfit for the occasion, by the way." With that, Sherlock throws me a wink and spins on his heel. I follow quickly behind him into the station and to Lestrade's office. A few people stare at me as I go by - though I'm not sure if it's because of my neon orange bra or the cleavage that you can only see when I move a certain way.

Sherlock opens Lestrade's door without knocking and allows me to enter before him. I walk into the room to find Lestrade pacing nervously behind his desk. He looks up at the two of us as we enter, pulling his hands from his pockets. My head tilts as I notice an unfamiliar expression on his face; this can't be good.

Beside me, Sherlock sighs heavily. "Oh, I know that look," he mutters quietly. Lestrade raises his eyebrows at him sort of apologetically and sighs as well.

"There've been serial suicides," Lestrade says simply. "Poison was found in the victims' blood." I poke my chin out slightly.

"How do you know they're suicides?" I inquire. Sherlock takes a seat in the chair beside me uncharacteristically.

"I've - well, we have seen this before," he says, sliding his desk chair out as if he were going to sit, too. I glance over at Sherlock for more of an explanation. However, he sits staring at Lestrade's desk with his hands in a tent shape just under his nose. His facial expression tells me he's thinking, but I have a feeling he's figured it out.

When I look back over to Lestrade, who actually didn't sit, I realize he's paused all movement and is looking curiously at the bra shining through my shirt like a neon orange moon in a clear night sky.

"Can I help you?" I say sarcastically.

He glances up to my face quickly and raises his eyebrows as if suddenly realizing I'm a human being with functioning eyes. "Oh, I'm so sor- I don't know what came over me," he stutters, finally taking a seat. He stares at his desk in shame for a moment before looking up to Sherlock suddenly. I look over at him too.

His eyes are closed now, but his hands remain in the same position. The three of us sit in silence, and I could swear I hear gears just turning and turning. Then, his eyes flick open. I prepare myself for quick talking as he stands and steps closer to Lestrade's desk.

"I need you to listen and listen well," he begins, his words almost blurring together. Lestrade doesn't have time to respond as Sherlock continues. "This is just one in many cases involving willing participants to aid in the return of the infamous Jim Moriarty. You will not call attention to this - not at work, at home, out in public, not anywhere. This man is not to be acknowledge. You cannot act upon this; you must trash this case immediately and change the subject whenever it's brought up. You will erase its existence from the databases - everywhere - and you cannot, cannot let any of this leave this room. Do you understand?" He says this all in a single breath, taking his time to enunciate every syllable in the last three words. Lestrade nods to him, staring like a small child into his angry father's eyes.

"Good," Sherlock says before turning and walking out quickly. He leaves the door open for me. I glance over at Lestrade momentarily before walking out behind the tall consulting detective.

Outside, I barely catch up to him as he gets into a cab. That door is left open for me as well. I slide into the seat beside him quickly and close the door. Immediately the car pulls out of its parking spot on the curb and takes us to, I assume, Baker Street.

"We aren't going to Baker Street by the way," Sherlock says. He stares out the window thoughtfully.

"Then where are we going?" I ask, staring over at him. There is no answer.