Threads of Deduction

The Game Within the Game

The bullpen at Scotland Yard was a sea of muted chaos — the low hum of conversation, the shuffle of papers, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the din. Rain traced lazy streaks down the windows, catching the dim city lights outside. Althea Hudson sat at her desk, pen in one hand, vanilla latte in the other, the steam curling in soft tendrils toward her face as she flipped through reports.

The latest case had officially closed two days ago — "officially" being the operative word. Sherlock had insisted on a quiet follow-up, convinced there was more beneath the surface, but for now, the Yard's attention had shifted to more mundane crimes. Althea welcomed the calm, even if it was deceptive.

"You look focused," came a voice, light and unwelcome.

Althea didn't bother glancing up. "And yet, here you are trying to ruin it."

Anderson leaned against her desk, coffee cup in hand, smirk firmly in place. "Come on, Hudson, no need to be so cold. Thought you might want company. We could grab a drink later?"

She signed a document without looking at him. "Tempting, but I already have plans."

"Plans that involve Holmes?" he pressed, clearly fishing. "Heard he's been hovering around you more than usual. Dangerous habit, that."

Althea finally looked up, her blue-green eyes sharp. "You should stop listening to rumors, Anderson. They make you look small."

That shut him up long enough for her to take another sip of coffee. Vanilla, sweet and smooth — one of the few small pleasures in days that otherwise bled together.

Lestrade appeared a few desks away, arms full of files. "Hudson, don't let him distract you. We need that report done by morning."

"Already on it," she replied crisply.

Anderson muttered something about her being "no fun" and slunk off, which only made the rest of the bullpen breathe easier.

Althea's phone buzzed once in her pocket — one message.

Unknown Number: We need to talk. Tonight.

Her stomach tightened. The number was unlisted, but she didn't need to guess.

It was late when she finally left the Yard, the sky heavy with mist. The city glowed faintly beneath the haze, streetlamps glimmering like distant candles. She wrapped her coat tighter, heading toward the corner to hail a cab — only to pause when the sleek, black car pulled up silently to the curb.

The back door opened.

"Miss Hudson," came a calm, smooth voice.

Mycroft Holmes.

For a moment, she considered walking away — pretending she hadn't seen him, pretending she wasn't part of the game she and Sherlock had begun weaving. But that was pointless. Mycroft didn't invite people. He summoned them.

She slid into the car. The interior was warm, quiet, smelling faintly of leather and expensive cologne. Mycroft sat opposite her, umbrella resting neatly by his side, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

"You've been difficult to reach," he said, tone polite but edged.

"I've been busy," Althea replied evenly. "Some of us have day jobs."

His smile deepened by a fraction. "Indeed. I trust you've had... productive time with my brother?"

She met his gaze, calm and unreadable. "Productive enough. He doesn't suspect a thing."

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Mycroft's eyes — the expression of a man who believed he was winning. "Excellent. And what has our dear Sherlock been occupied with lately?"