The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Twelve

Cubic Systems had its employees change their passwords on a frequent basis. Older generations tended to go mad over trying to keep them all straight. Sherlock flipped over the photographs taped to the edges of the monitor. Ah, yes. And Agnes O'Connor simply hated changing hers. She'd written them down in tiny print on the back of the photographs decorating her computer. So very predictable. Sherlock entered the latest one, and he was in. After that, accessing the company's employee files was simple. Records showed that Miranda Blythe had interviewed at Cubic Systems three weeks ago, and had begun work a week later. Her address was listed near Kennington Park. Her resume indicated she'd gone to university for business administration, worked with various companies in Europe, and excelled as an executive assistant. There were four glowing letters of recommendation.

Sherlock sat back. He wasn't any closer to the truth. Somehow, he'd thought he'd find something concrete and irrefutable here, but now he realized his best bet was to search Vivian's flat. At least he had her address now. Recognizing his time was limited, he stood and made sure everything was back in order. Just as he grabbed the chair from the middle of the room to return it to its original position, the office door swung open.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Agnes' hand flew to her ample bosom.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Sherlock said as he slid the chair back into place. "I was just checking the fire alarm in your office."

"Everything all right, Agnes?" a voice asked from the hallway.

Sherlock's jaw clenched. Of course it was Vivan. No matter. He'd fooled John while in disguise before. Deceiving Vivian would be simple.

A cheerful laugh. "M'fine, love. The fire inspector just gave me a fright s'all," Agnes said, stepping fully inside.

"My apologies," Sherlock softened his voice and ducked his head in bashful contrition right as Vivian appeared. He let the can of fake smoke slip from his fingers. It bounced across the floor, and he scurried forward to pick it up, deliberately fumbling it a few times. He finally grasped it, then half-straightened. "I'd best go finish up the rest. I need to replace a battery in the panel." After offering a timid head-bob to them both, he slipped past Vivian and headed down the hall. His satisfaction grew with every step. There was no way Vivian could have recognized him. Expectation shaped perception. That's why most people failed to recognize a co-worker outside of the office. The human brain was lazy and did as little work as possible. As a result, it took the easy path of assumptions and ignored any tiny niggling thoughts that might disrupt its happy lassitude. But even if that weren't the case, Sherlock was a master of disguise, an expert at subterfuge.

It was more than just the uniform and hat. He'd altered the pitch and cadence of his speech, his mannerisms and posture. Walking unrecognized amongst those who knew him was an acquired skill, one he'd honed to perfection. It didn't matter that Vivian had looked right at him. Like everyone else, she'd seen only what he'd wanted her to see: a painfully shy, rather bumbling man just trying to do his job. Now, he just needed to get out of here. If he hurried, he could search her flat before she left for home. He took a right at the end of the corridor.

A voice called after him, "Wait."

Vivian. Again. This time, he wasn't even surprised.

Sherlock's fingers tightened around the can of smoke. He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Vivian smiled and pointed to the left. "The panel's that way."

"Is it?" He rubbed the back of his neck in feigned embarrassment, then gave a helpless shrug. "I'm afraid I'm rather rubbish at directions."

A short laugh. "In all fairness, it is a bit of a maze in here. Come on, I'll show you where it is."

It appeared he'd gone and overdone the bumbling part. "I'd hate to be any trouble, Miss. I'm sure I can find it now."

"Oh, it's no trouble. It's good to have a walk after my meeting."

"Long one, was it?" he asked, falling into step beside her. There was no harm in fishing for information while he had the opportunity. He sneaked a glance at Vivian, but there was no suspicion in her expression. Only kindness and warmth. He tightened his jaw and reminded himself why he was here. She'd lied. He repeated it like a mantra in his head.

Vivian chuckled. "They usually are, but thankfully they're never boring."

"I can't say I've ever heard that said about meetings before," he said, injecting surprise into his tone.

"Yes, well. You haven't met my boss. I think he's a bit mad, honestly."

"Aren't all bosses like that?" He lowered his voice as if sharing a secret. "I'm not sure mine's even human."

Another laugh. "I expect you're right," Vivian said with a grin. "They must all be cracked."

"At least tomorrow's Friday." Sherlock had learned that every worker bee anticipated the day's arrival like children did Christmas.

"Yes, there's that," she said. They took another left, then a right. If he'd really been looking for the fire alarm panel, he would have needed to consult a map. "Do you have any exciting plans, Mister...?"

"Sigerson. Scott Sigerson."

"Miranda Blythe."

They shook hands sideways as they walked. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Sherlock. Here he was pretending to be someone else in order to investigate Vivian who was also pretending to be someone else. Although, he wasn't sure which identity of hers was the lie. Perhaps they both were. "Nothing exciting for me. Just a quiet night in with the telly. You?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm having dinner with someone at The Five Fields," she said, dimples forming around her mouth. "It's this posh new restaurant in London. The food's supposed to be incredible."

A spark of humor flared in Sherlock's chest. She'd barely mentioned Victor at all. It was clear she was drawn more to the food than the man. "Sounds like quite the date."

"Oh, I don't know about that." Her gaze went distant for a moment, mouth quirking. "I suppose I'll have to wait and see."

The flicker of amusement died.

She stopped in front of a narrow door at the end of the hall and opened it. "Right. Here we are."

The room was tiny, little more than a closet. A shelf filled with office supplies stood crammed against the back wall. To the left was the fire alarm panel, and opposite it, a ladder on a hook. A whirring hum came from an oscillating fan balanced on the top shelf. Without an air conditioning vent in the ceiling, all it did was circulate the warm, stuffy air of the enclosed space. Sherlock squeezed inside and forced a grateful smile onto his face. "I doubt I would have made it here without your help."

She shook her head. "I'm sure you would have found it eventually. When you're done here, go back down the hall. When it splits, make a left. There's an exit to the stairwell there. Easier than finding the lift."

"Thanks very much."

"My pleasure," she said with a smile and turned away. She took two steps forward, then stopped. Her head whipped around, and green eyes searched his, confusion in her gaze. Chin lifting, her nose probed the air like an English foxhound scenting its prey.

The warm air from the fan brushed across the exposed skin above Sherlock's collar, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He hadn't taken a shower after his long day in the morgue. The cloying scent from the chemical disinfectant no doubt still clung to his skin. If he'd been in an open, ventilated space, it wouldn't have been noticeable. But he wasn't in one at the moment. No, he was in a warm, tiny box with a fan blowing across him.

Vivian eyes went wide, and the warmth drained from her face.

Sherlock's brain didn't bother with the Latin version this time.

Shit.

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Do you still love me?