The Girl Without a Mark

Mr. Mysterious-MI6-looking Man and his large sum of money

A few moments later we're sitting in the back seat of the car. An attractive young woman was sitting beside John, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry while she typed on it. She was pretty much ignoring us.

'Hello," John greeted her. She smiled brightly at him for a moment before returning her gaze to her phone.

"Hi."

"What's your name, then?"

"Er, Anthea."

"Is that your real name?"

"No," she smiled.

John nodded, then twisted to look out of the rear window briefly before turning back again.

'I'm John," he offered.

"Yes. I know."

It was amusing to watch his attempts at polite conversation so I just silently laughed and stayed quiet.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" John asked.

"None at all, John," she replied, turning to smile briefly at him before she turned back to her phone again.

"Okay," he seemed a bit defeated and awkward so I patted his leg in sympathy, struggling to hide my smile.

Sometime later, the car pulled into an almost-empty warehouse. A man in a suit was standing in the center of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella while he watched the car stop and John and I get out. In front of the man was a straight-backed armless chair facing him. He gestured to it with the point of his umbrella as John limped towards him, leaning heavily on his cane. I followed slowly, scanning the area.

"Have a seat, John," the man invited and I shifted my gaze to look at him.

He was tall, kind of thick around the middle, with neatly combed, short dark hair, round cheeks but not so round that they made him look chubby. Suit was gray, pinstriped, brown loafers on his feet, the umbrella was black. High-level job, I guessed, he was the one who gave orders. MI6 perhaps, or something to do with the government. I didn't know why he would basically kidnap us. Perhaps we had met with someone dangerous, or maybe someone on their "keep a close eye on this one" list. But the only person who we had met who was even remotely interesting enough for the government to keep an eye on was-wait.

Sherlock.

I hummed in thought and studied the man again.

Similar eyes, cheekbones, though his cheeks were almost too round to see how high they were, similar vocabulary and diction. Looked to be a genius.

I realized something, something very important, but decided it was probably best I keep it to myself.

All the while, John continued toward the man, his voice calm as he said, "You know, I've got a phone."

He looked around the warehouse, but I kept my gaze trained on the man.

'I mean, very clever and all that, but, er, you could just phone me," John continued. "On my phone." He walked straight past the chair and stopped a few paces in front of the man. I walked over and casually leaned my shoulder against the top side of the back of the chair.

'When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place," the man replied. His voice, which had had a pleasant smile in it so far, became a little more stern towards the end of what he said next, "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down," John said.

The man looked at him curiously.

"You don't seem very afraid," he commented.