Threads of Deduction

The Game Within the Game

Althea took a slow sip of water from the car's side compartment, careful with her words. "He's been looking into the chemical residue from Southwark — thinks there's a connection to a private firm in Docklands. Something about military patents and stolen tech. He's being very... Sherlock about it."

It wasn't entirely a lie. There had been a firm in Docklands. There had been speculation about stolen patents. Just not the way she'd phrased it. The story was close enough to truth to sound real — precisely as she and Sherlock had planned.

Mycroft nodded, clearly pleased. "I see. And his mood?"

Althea almost smiled. "Difficult, as always. But he's talking to me, at least. That's more than most people get."

The car slowed in front of an ornate building tucked along Pall Mall — one of London's old gentleman's clubs, discreet and steeped in mahogany. Mycroft stepped out first, motioning for her to follow.

Inside, the air was rich with cigar smoke and history. Oil paintings of stern men watched from the walls; the polished wood floors gleamed under low amber light. A few members glanced their way but quickly looked back down — no one asked questions when Mycroft Holmes walked into a room.

He guided her to a quiet corner table, where brandy glasses glinted in the lamplight. "You've done well, Miss Hudson," he said smoothly. "I appreciate your... cooperation. It's important that we keep Sherlock's brilliance pointed in useful directions."

Althea crossed her legs, tone mild. "Of course. Wouldn't want him accidentally toppling the government before tea."

That earned a genuine chuckle. "Quite. You're sharp — I can see why he tolerates you."

She smiled politely, though the word tolerates made something in her bristle. "If there's nothing else, Mr. Holmes, I'll see myself out."

"Of course," he said, sliding a slim envelope across the table — the same way one might leave a tip. "For your discretion."

She tucked it into her coat without looking at it. "Pleasure as always."

The moment she was back outside, the chill night air hit her lungs like a shock. She slipped into the nearest alley, pulling out her phone.

Althea: He bought it. Completely.
Sherlock: Good. Deposit?
Althea: Already in my pocket.
Sherlock: Then we split.
Althea: You do realize that technically makes us both corrupt.
Sherlock: Technically. Practically, it makes us rich.

She couldn't help but smile — that infuriating, brilliant man.

Althea: How long before he notices?
Sherlock: Depends. He enjoys the illusion of control too much to question it quickly.
Althea: So, we wait.
Sherlock: Precisely.

She pocketed her phone and stepped out of the alley, her reflection rippling in the puddles under the streetlights. The envelope weighed lightly in her coat pocket — heavier in implication than in cash.

For now, Mycroft was satisfied. For now, she and Sherlock were winning.

But as the city stretched around her in its restless, rain-soaked hum, Althea couldn't shake the feeling that they were only dancing on the edge of something much larger — a game that neither Holmes brother would allow her to leave unchanged.

__ __ __

By the time Althea arrived at her apartment, the city was quiet, the streets slick with rain, reflecting the muted glow of lampposts. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, dropping her coat on the rack, her heels echoing softly against the wooden floor. The envelope from Mycroft still weighed in her coat pocket, the thought of the game she and Sherlock were playing lingering in her mind.

Daniel was sitting at the kitchen table, the faint amber light casting shadows across his tense face. A half-empty mug of coffee sat before him. He looked up as she entered, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You're late," he said, voice low, wary.

"I had to make a few stops," Althea replied, shrugging off the tension in her shoulders that she couldn't quite hide.

"Stop with the excuses," he snapped. "You've been... gone. Always working, always someone else. When were we last really us?"

Althea's jaw tightened. "I am working, Daniel. You knew that. You chose to be with me anyway."

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I didn't choose to feel like I'm competing with your job — and whatever this Holmes... situation is. You're living two lives!"

She took a step toward him. "It's complicated. I'm doing what I have to — what I need to do. You knew what this life was when you joined it."

"Maybe I didn't know this!" His voice cracked, frustration spilling into anger. "All these late nights, all these secrets... you can't even tell me who's really part of your life anymore. Are you... involved with him? Sherlock Holmes?"

Althea froze. The question hit like a blow, sharp and sudden. "Daniel —"

"No! Don't lie to me," he interrupted, his hands trembling slightly. "I can't... I can't be in the middle of this... this endless... mess!"

"I'm not lying," she said, voice firm. "I just... I can't tell you everything. Not yet."

"That's it, then," he said bitterly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I can't do this. I can't keep pretending it's okay to be left behind while you chase someone else's chaos."

Her chest tightened, a dull ache settling in her stomach. "Daniel... I—"

"No. I can't," he repeated, voice breaking. "I love you, Thea. I do. But I can't be part of a life where I don't even know who you are anymore."

And just like that, the tension that had been building for months snapped.

Althea felt her own eyes sting. "So... that's it?"

"Yes." He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. "I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."

She stood frozen, the words echoing in the quiet apartment. He grabbed his jacket, paused at the door, and gave her one last, lingering look — a mixture of heartbreak, resignation, and something that felt like love lost. Then he left.

The door closed behind him with a final click.

Althea sank into the nearest chair, hands clutching the edge of the table. The apartment was silent, save for the soft drip of rain outside and the distant hum of the city. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of the loss, the fracture of something she hadn't realised was already crumbling.