The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Twenty

A businessman in a charcoal suit kept pace with them from across the street. Mobile phone to his ear, he shouted angrily about a deal gone wrong. Two shop fronts behind the man stood a woman dressed entirely in black. Smoke snaked through the air, the glowing red tip of her cigarette the only hint of color around her. She sauntered forward in a lazy fashion as if she had no particular destination in mind. From behind Sherlock and Vivian came a whistling tune. It was an aimless, meandering melody, reminiscent of jazz. Sherlock hated jazz. A quick glance behind him, masked as interest in a shop window, revealed a young man dressed in a city waste management uniform, hands in his pockets, cap low on his head.

All three of them were good. Very good. Sherlock might not have recognized them for what they were except for one crucial detail: They all walked far too quietly. His heart rate picked up, mind racing to figure out the best course of action.

Vivian stumbled, body pitching forward. Since her hand was still tucked into his elbow, she careened into him instead of the pavement. Sherlock caught her against his chest, hands firm on her waist.

"Whoops," she said with a laugh. Smiling, she clutched at the lapels of his Belstaff coat and regained her balance. They were stopped in the shadows, just outside the golden circle of the next streetlight. She wobbled slightly and grimaced. "Damn. I think I broke my heel." Still tucked close against him, she slipped one shoe off and cradled it between them. Sherlock eyed it, then her. The heel was perfectly intact.

"We have company," Vivian whispered.

Sherlock nodded, feeling only the faintest flicker of surprise she'd noticed something most people wouldn't. Perhaps she'd learned the trick of spotting danger from her self-defense instructor, if she in fact had one. He still wasn't sure whether he believed her story or not. Regardless, someone had trained her and trained her well. Another piece to add to the puzzle that was Vivian Walker.

Two of their pursuers had paused along with them, dawdling, while the businessman continued walking forward. They were being flanked.

"Perhaps you should choose better footwear," Sherlock said loudly, continuing their conversation for the benefit of their audience. "Am I going to have to carry you?"

"I doubt you could. I ate far too much at dinner." She made a twisting motion, and the heel popped off, converting it into a flat. She did the same to the other one and dropped both ends into her clutch. Handy. That would certainly make it easier for her to move more quickly.

"What do they want?" she murmured, slipping her shoes back on.

"I doubt it's tea and conversation." If they'd been sent to kill them, they would have already struck. So, they would only use force if necessary. That meant this was a retrieval. Only someone very powerful would... Suspicion rose like a noxious fume inside Sherlock's mind, and his nostrils flared.

A sleek, dark sedan appeared at the street corner in confirmation.

Mycroft.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Alex Winter must have made his report, and now his brother had questions. Sherlock had expected an interrogation after he returned to 221B, not now. They had a rule about not interfering with one another while in public settings with people. Mycroft had been the one to propose it in the first place, no doubt concerned about his precious reputation. And yet, here he was flagrantly breaking it. Indignation burned through Sherlock, and he glared at the tinted black passenger window. There was no way he and Vivian were getting inside that car. Not tonight. Not ever.

He took off his coat and held it out to her. "Put this on." Her fair skin, blue gown, and red hair acted like a magnet for every particle of light. Even in the shadows, she glowed. For his plan to work, they needed to blend into the darkness. It was fortunate he wasn't wearing a white dress shirt beneath his suit jacket; he'd gone with sable. As soon as Vivian finished pulling his coat on, he buttoned it and flipped the coat collar up. That helped. If he'd been wearing a scarf, he would have wrapped it around her head. It would have to do.