You had finally returned to your flat after a few more fast paced cases with Bass. Most of them in Russia and Europe. You felt like you hadn’t taken a breath since you started. You and Bass had been working together for nearly a year now, and you made surprisingly great partners. You had barely unpacked your bag when you heard your doorbell ring and Bass’ voice over the intercom.
“Y/N, it’s me. Gonna let me up?” He asked.
You sauntered over to the intercom and pressed your finger to the button to reply.
“Should I?” You asked.
“Me ringing the bell is really just a formality. You and I both know I could pick this lock in 5 seconds.” He jokes.
“Yes, well you’ve always been slow. The inconvenience is tempting though.” You joked, finally pressing the buzzer to let him in.
Before he made it up the stairs you took your letters to Sherlock out of your duffel bag you were unpacking and stuffed them into a drawer on your TV stand. You were better. Nearly a year and a half had passed and you were able to say his name now without breaking down. You thought that was progress. Your life just felt empty now, even though you were barely alone.
When you were in London between assignments you had tea with Mrs. Hudson at least once a week. She hadn’t let 221B out, and you couldn’t bear to possibly enter it. You’d met John once for lunch since, and he was clearly still not okay. Compared to him you were doing well. Of course he had no idea what you were doing now, though he did know you had quit your job at Scotland Yard. You tried to keep an eye on him, but you were so busy. You had found out that he was seeing someone now and it was pretty serious. You were happy for him. As for you, not much had changed. You worked. It was the one thing you could do to keep your mind off of him.
Bass walked through the door, and after a snide remark about the state of your flat, he made his way over to the couch.
“You know what we need to do tonight?” He asked, putting his feet up.
“Remove your feet from my coffee table?” You asked, and he huffed and moved them back onto the ground.
“We need to go out tonight. Maybe a pub or something?” He said and you rolled your eyes.
“You’ve got nothing better to do than take a recovering alcoholic to a pub?” You asked.
“Well you don’t have to drink, but I need to.” He whined.
“Fine, but we should go now, I’ve got things to do and I’m not staying out all night with you.” You argued.
“I know just the place.” He stood, grabbed his coat, and lead you outside. You both hopped in a cab and headed to the pub. You were okay being around alcohol, and you would probably be okay drinking it. It just brings you back to a bad time in your life, one that you don’t want to remember or repeat.
“No, no, no a blonde drug smuggler who was exposed by an abbot with unusual powers of observation and deduction.” You heard as you entered through the door of the pub, Bass behind you.
“A blonde woman hiding amongst bald monks, that wouldn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes.” You heard another voice return and quickly whipped around.
“Y/N?” Anderson asked, and your eyes grew wide in surprise.
“Anderson? Greg?” You asked, surprised to see them both here.
“God, how’ve you been?” Greg asked, hugging you.
“Busy.” You smiled, Charles now standing next to you.
“Who’s this?” Anderson asked politely. He had really let himself go: overgrown hair, beard, frumpy sweater. He must have gone downhill after he was fired from the Yard.
“Charles Bass. Friend of Y/N.” He smiled, shaking their hands.
“Colleague.” You corrected him.
“It’s been nearly a year, I think we can be considered friends now.” He joked, and you smiled to him.
“Charles this is my old boss Greg Lestrade, and an old colleague Phillip Anderson.” You formally introduced them.
“So you’re doing well. New job and all. What exactly do you do?” Greg asked.
“We kill people for money.” Charles said casually, and you laughed, panicking inside.
“He’s joking, of course. We work at the Natural History Museum. I run tours and we work on restorations and curations.” You smiled and lied.
“That sounds interesting, I didn’t know you were interested in that kinda stuff.” Greg smiled politely.
“Lifelong passion of mine.” You smiled, looking down to the table and the map Anderson had been showing Lestrade.
“What’s this?” You asked more seriously now. You heard the conversation as you were entering, you knew exactly what this was about. They both stared at you, almost afraid to talk.
“Phillip, he’s dead. Trust me, I wish he wasn’t. Don’t you think of all people I’d know if he wasn’t.” You said, looking to Anderson who seemed unconvinced.
“Well then how do you explain this?” He flipped the map. “Signing number 2, The Incident in New Delhi.”
“You haven’t been titling these, have you?” You asked, slightly concerned for Anderson’s mental health.
He then continued to explain how their police inspector had solved a case by measuring the depth of which a chocolate flake had fallen through an ice cream cone. Which in all honesty sounded ridiculous and made up.
“Clever man, Inspector Rajesh.” Greg said, and Anderson scoffed.
“What police inspector could have made that deduction.” He argued, and you and Charles had pulled up a chair.
“Well thank you.” Greg said sarcastically.
“You know how Sherlock never took the credit when he solved all of your cases.” Anderson began.
“He didn’t solve all of my cases,” Greg said defensively.
“He’s out there, he’s hiding, but he can’t stop himself from getting involved. It’s so obviously him, if you know how to spot the signs.” Anderson rambled, and you shook your head in disbelief. If Sherlock was out there, solving inconsequential cases out in the world, he would have told you, but none of that mattered. You don’t jump off a building and live.
“Klein Brothers, the Tower House thing.” Lestrade began listing cases he had solved on his own, or with moderately little help from you.
“The Kensington Ripper.” You helped, adding another.
“You got Tower House wrong.” Anderson stated and Lestrade argued while he flipped the map again.
“Sighting 3 The Mysterious Juror.” Anderson said, and Greg banged his head on the table.
“I’m gonna need a drink.” Charles said, standing to head to the bar.
“Make that two.” You rolled your eyes. What had happened to Anderson? He used to hate Sherlock, now he’s obsessed with him.
You tuned out of this story but according to Anderson, Sherlock swayed some murder trial in Copenhagen. Because obviously in his free time, when he’s not being dead, he’s on jury duty.
“It had to be him! There’s no one else it can be, don’t you see?” Anderson asked as Charles handed you a beer.
“Phillip, I see that you lost a good job fantasizing about a dead man and him coming back to life, and I know why you want that to happen. I want it to happen, but it’s just not gonna.” You said honestly, but something told you he wasn’t going to stop.
Anderson and Greg eventually left and you and Charles now sat at the table by yourselves.
“Has he always been like that?” Charles asked.
“Oh God no. He was an ass and he hated Sherlock. He helped take Sherlock down, planting the doubt in everyone’s mind that he was some sort of killer. Now he’s obsessed. He came and visited me in the hospital and I could tell he felt guilty, but I didn’t know it was this bad.” You answered, you noticed Charles was looking down at his watch.
“Sorry, am I boring you answering your question?” You asked rudely.
“No, I’m seeing if we have time to grab dinner. Hungry?” He asked. You smiled and rolled your eyes. You seemed to be doing that a lot lately when you were around Bass.
“I suppose, but nowhere too nice I’m not dressed for it.” You told him, and he smirked, clearly knowing a place.
The two of you walked down the street, apparently the restaurant was close by or at least walking distance. The two of you chatted before you were interrupted by someone calling your name.
“Sergeant Gregson?” You heard behind you and turned to see Kitty Riley, the reporter from the SUN. You stopped and she ran up to you.
“Sergeant Gregson, I’ve been trying to find you for a while now.” She began and you cut her off.
“Then you’re not a very good investigative journalist. And I don’t work for Scotland Yard anymore so you don’t have to call me Sergeant.” You told her.
“I wanted to apologize. After everything with Sherlock Holmes I tried to find you, but you sort of went off the grid. You quit your job, weren’t in your flat, or the country it seemed-” She said and you cut her off again.
“Is there a point here Kitty?” You sped her along.
“If there’s anything I can ever do for you, I’ll do it.” She said, clearly repentant.
“Clear his name.” You said.
“What?” She asked, shocked.
“Recant your story. Clear his name. Paint Moriarty as the manipulative villain who even got to you and forced Sherlock to his death after smearing his name. He was an innocent detective who saved lives and solved crimes that even the police force couldn’t. I think we owe him at least that.” You said, and Kitty nodded somberly.
You began to walk away and you felt Charles grab your hand. What you didn’t know was that Kitty took a photograph. You also didn’t know that it was going to be published in the SUN tomorrow with the headline ‘Hello Detective: Gregson Returns and Who’s Her New Arm Candy?”.
“Can you believe this? That bitch!” You yelled, throwing the paper down on the coffee table, Charles trying to calm you. He had slept on your couch last night after having a little too much to drink.
“Well think of it this way. Normally women are objectified in these kind of papers, and I’m the arm candy and you’re the smart, powerful lead. I’d take that as a win for the feminist movement.” He said, and you didn’t know whether to slap him or not.
“Like I give a damn about that! I’m an international assassin, I can’t have my face plastered on Page 6 everytime I leave my flat!” You ranted.
She needed to be taken care of. No, you weren’t going to kill her. There were worse things you could do. You had to see Mycroft, he would have this taken care of. You didn’t care if he paid her off or got her fired, but Kitty Riley needed to learn her place. As an undercover government asset, this threatened the safety of not only yourself but of the nation.
You threw on a dress and stepped outside your flat to call a cab to take you to the Diogenes Club when you saw a black car pull up. You rolled your eyes, did he always have to be two steps ahead of you?
“Hello Giles, it’s been an age.” You said, sliding into the car.