Orphan on Baker Street

Twenty First: Plan

We decide to execute this plan A.S.A.P. and roll up in front of the station the next day. I wore a set of my smaller and more revealing clothes - red crop top and red skater skirt, paired with matching ballet flats. Something inside of me makes me think I should have worn sneakers, though. On the way there, Sherlock recited the plan to me in a hushed tone; I repeat what he told me so he knows I understand while we walk towards the front door. My heart beats wildly in my chest, but I know this is what I have to do.

My fingers seem to suffocate the folder in my hand, surely wrinkling a few papers in the process. Sherlock swings the door open and holds it for me. Then we each go our separate ways.

I knock shyly on Lestrade's door, remembering the events of the previous evening. His voice tells me to come in, so I do.

As soon as he looks up at me, I start speaking quickly. "I am so sorry about yesterday," I say breathlessly, closing the door softly behind me. We keep eye contact because I heard that helps with confidence - which I need right now. He gives me a pitiful smile.

"I should be the sorry one," he says, pushing himself up from his desk chair. I shake my head quickly.

"No, no. I understand where you were coming from. I was just caught off guard, and Sherlock was a little bummed already. I was trying to defend my friend," I say. He frowns slightly at me, and I step closer to his desk.

"Friend? You consider Sherlock as... as a friend?" A corner of Lestrade's mouth raises curiously. I nod slightly, and there's a small moment of silence.

"So, anyway," I begin, loosening my grip on the folder in my hand. "I had some questions about the internship."

"Oh, alright," he says with a smile. Then he slides a chair around his desk beside his chair, and I take a seat in it. When I do, I get worried that he can hear my heartbeat. It was calm for a minute, but now it's very erratic and alarming. "So, what are your questions?" he asks, leaning back. His head rests on a fist whose elbow rests on the arm of the chair, and he looks me up and down like I'm just another crime scene - but with less disgust and more of a hunger.

"Uh, I was wondering who I should ask for recommendations," I say, trying to imitate a confused child.

"I'd suggest you ask someone around the station, or maybe John - he has some experience. And if you want to go for a more lengthy and blunt approach, I guess you could ask Sherlock... Maybe you could ask whoever runs the orphanage you went to, or any teacher. Really, what you want to do with recommendations," - he sits up and leans on the desk and a little towards me - "is find someone who'll only say kind and believable things about you. But, they should also include something you're working on - like a skill or something - so that it seems more genuine and not like you wrote it." I nod and bite my bottom lip.

"Do you think you could write me one?" I ask innocently. He chuckles, and I take that as a cue to smile.

"I would be happy to, Mickey," he says fondly, still smiling.

"Well, I have other questions too! Like, um, is it an all over the building thing, or am I applying to be an intern to a specific department?" It's a dumb question, and probably in a pamphlet I didn't read, but I don't know how much time Sherlock needs.

"You'd just apply to a certain department. Like, you would specify it in the area that asks for the position on the application," he responds, setting his hand on the cushioned arm of my metal chair. "What department do you want to be in?"

"The detective one, of course," I say with a smile.

"Oh, then you'll have to memorize how I like my coffee," he says with a grin. I let out a light giggle. "And maybe I could take you out to scenes with me; you could be there before Sherlock!"