The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Twelve

For the first time, doubt flickered across John's face. "The name they gave me was Miranda Blythe."

Sherlock sat down at the desk and did a search for "Miranda Blythe and Cubic Systems" on John's laptop. The company directory popped up. It only listed a series of names and email addresses - no photographs. A search using Miranda's email address returned nothing. He resorted to Facebook. Naturally, a lengthy list of profile photos came up for the name. He narrowed the search down to Kennington, the area where Vivian had said she'd found a flat. That reduced the list substantially. He scrolled once. Twice. Then a third time.

The air in his lungs turned to frost.

There she was.

Sherlock knew her as Vivian Walker, but her Facebook page said otherwise. Miranda Blythe. Female. 33. Executive assistant to Charles Wheeler, CEO of Cubic Systems. Single. Her profile photo showed her in a short black dress, smiling widely at the camera, some frothy alcoholic pink drink in her hand. Numerous photos cluttered her page. One showed her on a gondola ride in Venice, while another had her sipping a cappuccino in Paris. A poorly lit one had her squished in the middle of a large tipsy group at a pub. The last was a blurred motion shot of her dancing at a club, glitter on her skin. Messages from friends flooded her newsfeed. Some were clearly inside jokes. A number checked in asking about her new job. The ice in Sherlock's chest spread outward, freezing his breath, his blood, his bones.

Vivian had lied to him. To both of them. About everything.

"What the hell?" John murmured from over his shoulder. "Why is she calling herself Miranda?"

Sherlock's jaw was clenched so tight, he couldn't respond. Leaving John frowning at the computer, he marched into his bedroom and threw open his closet door. Where was it? He knew it was in here somewhere. He rifled past a priest's robe, a Royal Navy uniform, and a fireman coat. There. In the far corner, ID badge still attached. He changed his clothes, buttoning up the grey shirt, then pulling on the matching trousers and a scuffed pair of boots. He settled a ball cap on his head, making sure it covered his hair completely. When he walked back into the room, John did a double-take. "What are you wearing?"

Sherlock didn't answer, as it was blatantly obvious, and removed his keys from his coat where it hung on the hook near the door. He slipped them into his trouser pocket and turned to leave, but John blocked his path. "What are doing?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you're going to infiltrate Cubic Systems dressed as a ruddy fire alarm inspector."

"Excellent deduction. Are we done?" Impatience twisted at his insides. He should have gone out the bedroom window.

"No, we're not done." The set of John's jaw turned mulish. "There's bound to be a reasonable explanation for all this."

A harsh laugh tore its way out of Sherlock's throat, leaving it raw and aching. "Oh John, you have far too much faith in people."

"And you have far too little. You can't just go spying on Vivian at her work. That isn't fair."

"Fair?" Sherlock demanded. "She's lied to us repeatedly. My investigating her is merely balancing the scales. That's fair."

"Wrong. Fair would be giving her the benefit of the doubt and asking her about it."

"How can you possibly be this naive? Vivian has already proven herself incapable of telling the truth."

"Oh, that's rich, Mr. I-Faked-My-Death-For-Three-Bloody-Years," John exclaimed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course John would bring that up. "That was completely different. I had good reason for that."

"Maybe Vivian has a good reason too. Or did that not occur to you?"