Hello! I'm very new to the Sherlock fandom, but I've been itching to write a fanfiction for it for a bit. Not going to bore you with a long author's note like I do in my other stories, but I hope you enjoy it :). I'm really posting it to see the reaction since I can hardly wait for it to be done to post it, even if that's easier for me. So, I hope you do enjoy the House of Cards, my very new and first Sherlock/OC fanfiction, and enjoy my OC, Meredith Wilder.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own BBC Sherlock, or any of the amazing bits and pieces of all Sherlock things. I wish I did, but I don't. I do own characters that you do not recognize like Meredith Wilder and Carter Smith, an the other plot details that aren't recognizable.
Summary: She was a liar. She told her best friend that she left London for the change in scenery, when really, she had to go away for a long time and maybe permanently. Meredith Wilder, a NYPD detective who has gotten herself deported back to England, where she has to hide who she really is. But under Sherlock Holmes' nose and being a detective herself in Scotland Yard, is that really so easy? Sherlock/OC
Prologue: The Science of Deduction
"She spent an astonishing amount of time in attending lectures and demonstrations, distributing literature for the Junior Anti-Sex League, preparing banners for Hate Week, making collections for the savings campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said; it was camouflage. If you kept the small rules you could break the big ones." -George Orwell, 1984
"What the hell is this?" I take the laptop off of Carter's lap and put it on top of the small table that is offered on this godforsaken plane. At least the flight is almost over. He lets out a squeal of protest, or what sounds like a squeal to me, and goes to take it away. I quickly punch him in the arm the hardest I could to get him away from me. I narrow my eyes at the title of the web page. "The Science of Deduction by Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing looking at this?" I glance over at him, he has a defeated expression on his face as I scroll down the page.
Carter explains, "I'm a detective. I'm just reading up on this stuff so I can be good at my job." I turn my head to him again, I can just feel my face twisting at the sound of this.
"Yes, you are a detective. You should already be good at this stuff. In fact, you've been my partner for three years, haven't you learned anything from me?" I ask him curiously. He has been my partner for three years and a detective for five, and he still has to look at this website like he is some beginner? I chuckle lightly when he doesn't answer and turn back to the laptop. I read the description, "'I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.' Oh, that sounds fancy. 'I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you don't understand it. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please.'"
"Okay, you've had your fun, can I have—?"
"Oh no, I'm just getting started. 'This is what I do: 1. I observe everything. 2. From what I observe, I deduce everything. 3. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth.' The bloke just contradicted himself. He said that he wasn't going to go into detail about how he does what he does because we wouldn't understand."
"No, he didn't go into detail about what he does. So he never contradicted himself. Now, can I have it—?"
"Why are you even looking at this anyway?" I inquire to him curiously, ignoring every word that he says to me. I didn't mean to interrupt him talking though. "You're a good detective. In New York, you solved dozens of cases without my help and yet you are looking at a website of a consulting detective. An amateur."
"He is hardly an amateur."
"Oh, really?" I ask him. "Tell me, have you ever heard of a consulting detective?"
"Exactly. It's a made up profession." I say proving my point. I go to look at some more of it, preferably to the forum since that is where he probably gets contacted, but Carter takes his laptop back within his hands. "Oi!"
"Just look at this," Carter says to me. I grit my teeth somewhat annoyed as he goes to a panel on the top of it. I look away seeing the flight attendant come over to where we are. We are almost in London, I think, maybe just about an hour left. I feel like I'm about to pass out even though I did take a nap moments ago that lasted three hours. Carter's fingers typing woke me up. He had to go and bring his laptop on this flight, couldn't he have just brought a really long book to pass the bloody time or perhaps... I don't know, sleep? He pulls up a page with a bunch of scrambled letters. "I bet not even you can decipher that."
"'This is one for the internet geeks out there. 'Anonymous' has been in touch: 'I've emailed you a little message. A little game to play. I do like games.' And he has indeed emailed me.'"
"Is it necessary for you to read out the heading?" Carter asks me almost sounding a little exasperated. I barely look up at him as I silently then read the email. Dearest Sherlock, A Roman Emperor will help you work out what this means. DSPCWZNV T LX HLENSTYR JZF. xx. I lean my head back and rub my chin. My forehead crinkles as I stare down the many letterings there. "See? You have to think about it and you're good with codes."
"I only just read it, now shut up so I can think it through." I scowl at him. The flight attendant finally makes it to us, I try to block out her annoying voice while I tell her quickly, "Whiskey, please. Your strongest."
"Scotch is fine?"
"That'll do." I go back to looking at the code. Roman emperor. There are Julius Caesar, Maximian, Augustus, Constantine I, and Justinian I... well those are the well known emperors. Julius Caesar is the most well known though. He is what people first think when they hear the word Roman and I think there is a code that is associated with him.
"No, no scotch." I hear Carter next to me. I look away from his laptop and stare at him in disbelief. The flight attendant is still next to me? "Get her some juice or soda or something."
"What kind of juice?"
"Just get me the scotch." I say to her annoyed before looking back at the code and going back in my head. From the corner of my eye, I see Carter actually mouth to the poor flight attendant 'apple juice,' throwing in a small wink to her before stating to her what he wanted. I chose to ignore it. Julius Caesar... was more of a dictator of Rome than an emperor (yes, there is a difference) and he was assassinated on March 15th, marked on the Roman Calendar as the Ides of March. "I need the scotch." I tell Carter as I calculate in my head the code. I think I have gotten it.
"You don't need to add to your drinking problem." Carter remarks, going into his carry-on bag and taking out the New York Times that he had gotten earlier. It looks like he hasn't opened it yet.
"It helps me think."
"It's going to give you liver disease."
"Obviously, I don't care." I comment to him. "Give me some paper please and a pen." Carter looks at me confused for a moment before I nod over to the screen with my head. He mouths an 'oh' like he didn't expect me to figure this out so fast. It isn't that hard if you paid attention in your history class. Carter goes into his carry on bag to take out the piece of paper and pen while I wait patiently for him to do so. My fingers beat against the small table, I can feel the plane descend about a foot underneath my feet. "Hurry."
"Patience is a virtue."
"And I don't have it." Soon he picks up his head and gives me the lovely paper and pen. I take it from him and take the pen in my hand. I move the paper more in front of me, copying down the letters on the computer screen and having Carter look over every move I make. "Did you ever figure this one out?" I inquire to him curiously. My guess is no, or else he wouldn't have told me that I would never figure this out myself. Obviously he was wrong. I figured it out in less than five minutes.
"No." See? Told you. "Did you?"
"It's simple." I tell him honestly. I translate the code underneath the letters. "It's called a Caesar cipher. I figured it out by it saying Roman Emperor, and the only Roman Emperor that everyone in this bloody planet knows, or at least heard of, is Caesar." I explain to him. "The Ides of March is on March 15th, when Caesar was assassinated—thank you." Interrupted by the presence of a glass with a cheesy little napkin around it, I take it quickly in my hand and sip it. The woman reaches over me and to give the other glass to Carter. Carter tries to catch her eye by doing something irritatingly weird, I don't pay attention. She doesn't either, she just walks away from our seats. I can only imagine the sullen look on Carter's face as he slumps in his seat. "I hate apple juice."
Carter shakes his head, picking up the glass in his hand and staring off after where the flight attendant has gone. "It's better than the scotch that you wanted. Now, go on."
I put the juice down as I continue to translate the letters. "Well, Julius Caesar, fifteen, letters. It's pretty self explanatory. You don't need to be a genius. You just go down the alphabet fifteen letters with each letter." I stop writing for a moment and gesture to the first word. Carter's eyes look down at it puzzled, "See, the first word is 'Sherlock' which comes from this lettering. Fifteen letters down from D is S, and it goes on from there. If it starts at S, then you go back to the beginning and get H. It's simple."
"Okay, so what does it say?"
"I'm not translating every single letter, Carter Arthur Smith." I say to him. I push the paper toward him and move my table up since I won't be needing it any more after this. Carter nearly sneers at the sound of his full name as I lean my head back and close my eyes. "You can do that for me."
"We have all flight—."
"We only have an hour left, Carter." I tell him, moving my head more comfortably to the side, only having to have it tilted slightly. No matter how uncomfortable this seat is, I found my comfort spot, the first time in hours actually. "I am going to get some more shut eye. Since you've been obnoxiously up the whole flight over the pond, maybe this could get your eyes tired enough before you go on your returning flight after you have dropped me off at that smelly deportation hotel made for illegal immigrants like me apparently."
"You weren't—aren't—illegal. You only forgot to renew your green card."
"And my ex-fiancé was kind enough to report me." I smirk with a snicker. I really do hate that wanker, thankfully I don't have to see his face ever again. "By American standards, I am illegal in those United States of America. Like half of the other population in the US of A."
"Don't say that. You just got unlucky."
"I'm always unlucky, don't you know that already?"
"I don't think you are though." I soften my face at that and open my eyes to look over at him. His head is hovering over the paper as he writes under the letters. I can see him mouthing the alphabet under his breath and counting on his fingers. I smile softly, I'm really going to miss this. Him and I, sitting like this. Our small arguing and bickering, and of course all the times we shared. There's not going to be many now. Carter did say that he would visit me in London often, but... I know that in these times, that could be hard for someone like him to do. I look away from him and close my eyes almost painfully tight.
I almost fall asleep in the silence we are in. But ten minutes of just trying to sleep, made me stay awake. Fifteen minutes later, I hear Carter actually come up with the translation of the code. "'Sherlock, I am watching you.'"
"Did you know it already?"
"No." I smirk over at him, opening my eyes. "It makes sense. Obviously, your consulting detective has a stalker." At that, Carter chuckles and soon I join in with him. For a moment, I think we sort of forgot that we are going to be separated after this. "So, Mr. Smith," I say, "do you know if your Sherlock Holmes solved this yet?"
"Yes he did."
"How long ago?"
"He posted this up a week ago, but it doesn't say how long it took him. I think he only did it to see if we can do it... well, not us. The people who look at his website." Carter explains to me. Well, if I ever do meet Sherlock Holmes, which would probably not happen, I will be sure to ask him how long it took him. I will be horribly disappointed though if it took him a week, I took me less than five minutes. Although, I did specialize with decoding while on the NYPD. It is something that I know perfectly well. I helped a lot of detectives with decoding codes and translating words. "Meredith?" I look over at Carter with my eyebrow raised. "I'm just curious, are you going to continue being a detective?"
I don't answer him right away. "I might just own a shop. I don't have to be a detective again." I will be out of luck without my good ol' partner, Carter. I may seem the more intelligent of us, but without him... I'm actually really lost. It has crossed my mind, of course. Being a detective in Scotland Yard, but it just doesn't seem right to me without my partner, call it loyalty. And that work is so life consuming, I couldn't have a relationship because I was already married to something called work. And I was quite the workaholic in New York. But... I loved it, it was better than I what I used to do. Still do, but I don't know if I would ever go back to it. "I always wanted to own a shop."
"I'll sell antiques," I state. "Besides, you were... the best partner a detective could have," I say to him with a smirk. Carter shakes his head at that and my smirk grows fondly to him. I gently place my hand on top of his elbow. "I'm quite serious. Without you being my partner, I don't think I could really survive there. You taught me all the New York casualties. Like walking like you're in a hurry, and what places to not get Chinese Food, oh and of course you showed me which hot dog stands are not disgusting."
"Those are things that everyone should know," Carter says to me. I look directly in his brown eyes and chuckle lightly. Carter is a handsome guy if you really look at him. He has a small face, with a thin, but not long, nose, and a chiselled jaw that has a little bit of blonde stubble. He also has blonde curls on the top of his head, sitting there not at all askew or messed around with. His brown eyes are also quite mesmerizing if you catch yourself staring into them for quite a while. During my first week with the force I almost found it hard focusing whenever he was around me. "I was doing a good service."
"Samaritan now, are we? Okay, don't take that compliment, be modest, but know you would always have a special place in my heart."
"You should work for Scotland Yard," Carter says to me with a small smile. I look over at him, exchanging a smile of my own as he moves his armrest up in between us. His arm extends around my shoulders, bringing me closer to him and I slowly lay my head on top of him. "You'll do great. You were one of the best detectives in New York and you are somewhat amazing with cases. And I don't think you know anything about antiques."
"You'd be surprised then." I chuckle lightly. He has never really entered my apartment, every where you look there is some antique that I have. My favourite one, is something my mother had won in an auction. It's a beautiful necklace that plunges down over the neckline with a single blue stone that is so small, almost the size of the pad of my index finger. Around it is a circle of diamonds, that if the sun hits it right you can see part of a rainbow with them. And my wooden dresser, bookshelves, and even coffee table, are all made from the 19th century. I actually got a good deal on them. "I don't know, we'll see. I might figure it out in that smelly deportation inn that they are shipping me off to. Well, that you are dropping me off at."
"You don't even know if it is smelly yet."
"I know, I'm assuming it. Carter, you will keep in touch with me right? I know how hard it is and how expensive it is."
"No money in the world can stop my call to check in on you once a month, I'll send mail, and there is also a thing called texting nowadays. Ever heard of it?" Carter says. I shake my head against his chest and I feel it fall down and rise quickly as he laughs in my ear. "And I'll visit every year."
"Like Garrett would let you do that." I remark. Our Captain, with his fat pink face and his cigar often bit down in between his gritted teeth, and his massive bald spot on the top of his head, barely being covered by his black toupee (the black toupee often contrasted with the little grey hair that he had), hated me. Probably still does. I don't know what I ever did to him, but when I first came to New York, he had me doing paperwork because I could be sometimes... rude. I don't know how he got that idea though. I'm just outspoken sometimes.
"I'll get him to agree to it, don't worry about that." He would never, and if he did... I'll be utterly surprised. But hopefully, Carter can pull something together so he could visit me in London. "Meredith, why did you leave here in the first place? You... never actually told me." My eyes were only just beginning to close when he asks that, but now, they widen open. I gulp to myself and don't dare pick up my head to look at him directly. I decide on not answering at first, maybe that will get him away from the question. "Mere?" He prompts. He doesn't really need to know the details of it though...
I decide against telling him the truth. My best friend doesn't need to know what I did in London, when I left uni. It isn't necessary... in fact, you who are reading into my every thoughts and moves right now, hardly need to know what I really want to tell him. The truth. He may find out eventually. Hell, if you get me drunk enough, hung me over a cliff, and threatened my life, it may just make me spill out my whole life story to you. I may actually tell him at some point in my life. In my death bed, but still...
"I'm sorry, I'm drifting off," I apologize quickly as I pick up my head slightly. I flash him a quick smile, a very faint smile, and lie directly to his face, "I only needed a change in scenery."
I was right on the plane. The smelly deportation hotel smells horribly for somewhere in the heart of London. After I lug my bags to my room, I fumble with the keys. Dropping my bags and almost my keys along with them, I push the one the lady gave me before in the lock. Apparently there aren't many staying here, but there are some. I'm not the only Brit who got deported. It actually makes me feel better about myself. The door opens with a creak and I reluctantly push it open with my finger. I swallow before allowing my face to twist and turn. I peek my head in, taking in my room.
It's a deep red, almost a burgundy. The floor is wooden, but it isn't sanded correctly, in fact I see splinters standing up in these floors. Thank God this is only temporarily until I find a flat or a job to get a flat. A flat and a job would be amazing to have right about now. I drag inside the bags with a lot of effort because I really don't feel like carrying them frankly. This hotel doesn't have any WIFI either, which may be a problem for me. I suppose I could always go into the café I used to go on the corner of Baker Street, if it's still there, for dinner and check my e-mails. I'm sure they all had forgotten about me by now, I do look different. A lot different.
Now fully in the room, I get a better look at it. My eyes scan the walls to see it scarcely covered with paintings that obviously got rejected by the Louve. One is a cheap imitation of the Mona Lisa, it's not the actual one obviously, but the person who had painted it should have known better than making the infamous half-smile into a complete grin. It ruins its entirety. There is another disgusting looking painting in here, but I won't describe it. I can barely even look at the bloody thing and I'm going to have to since it's across from the bed. I turn my head soon enough to look at the mirror behind me.
Did I mention how much different I look? I frown at the sight in the mirror. My used-to-be-red hair is pulled up in a blonde ponytail, my green eyes now have blue tint to them because of the blue contacts I have chosen to wear. They also have bags under them, but that isn't really different. I scrunch the nose on my face like a rabbit and scrunch it several times. I like this one better. I had a much larger nose, but the best thing about this is that it's smaller and more... natural looking. Kind of ironic, don't you think?
But... there really isn't a trace of me left. All I have on my face that is really mine? My freckles, my cheekbones, and my mouth. Only those three things because with the different nose, I look different enough.
I back away from the mirror, I can barely stand myself right now. I turn my head to look at the somewhat messy bed, the duvet cover is folded and wrinkly on the top of it. Though messy, it's inviting. It feels like I'm floating on a cloud going over to it, I hate how long the flight was, my legs are still wobbling from the amount of sitting I have just done... without any sort of strong liquor to keep me busy. I fall onto that bed sideways, my head hits the lumpy pillow and the smell of old musk and sex comes off of it. My nose scrunches as I close my eyes.
Jet lag. It gets us all that we end up not even caring about the stench of musk and sex stained on top of a lumpy pillow and a hard mattress that could be filled with rocks for all I know. I should be beginning my search for a job and a flat, maybe with a couple of flatmates. I didn't have too many friends back then, nor would I like to see my old friends again. They wouldn't recognize me. Nor would I them. Three years doesn't seem to be a long time, but some people age as if the years are decades. A lot can happen in three years—1,095 days. They could be married and have kids, have a prestigious job, grow a beard, anything really. And what have I done? Become a fugitive, changed my looks & name, get engaged to an arse that started all of my troubles, become a detective, forget to renew my green card and get deported back to England, the very place I was trying to run away from? That sounds like failure to me. I never got caught, I may have been forgotten about, but that doesn't mean that I was successful.
I got fucked over eventually and it wasn't Scotland Yard that did it. It was the man, Paul Ferguson, who made me do it with him. Karma caught up with me and maybe Scotland Yard would pick me up outside tomorrow morning when I go job shopping and give me the time in prison, not for the new detective job interview. But those blokes are sometimes too thick to even tie their shoes correctly.
Once my breathing begins to slow, my eyes begin to tighten shut, and sleep begins to envelop itself around me, my phone rings. My damn phone rings. A loud groan comes out of me and I pick up my head tiredly as I feel the phone in my back pocket vibrating with an obnoxious ringtone of Thriller that I bought for myself three years ago. I ended up hating the song the week after I got it since it was overplayed. But I was too lazy—still am—to change it back to the default, less irritating ringtone.
Who could be calling me now, passes through my head. The only people who had my number are Carter, who is on the plane back to New York already, Garrett, who hates me still, a couple of co-workers, who wouldn't give me the time of day, my ex-fiancé, who wants to kill me—somewhat—and who deported me, and his buddy's wife, who is unlikely to call me ever again unless it is to 'catch-up'. A little too soon to catch up, I think. I take the phone out of my pocket, stare at the familiar number not added in my phone, before picking it up as Michael Jackson screams his final 'Thriller.'
"Wilder." I still say it like I work for the NYPD. Force of habit.
"Meredith Wilder?" A professional, English accent asks me. My eyebrow raises and I don't answer him right away. I pull the phone away and look at the number on the phone. It looks familiar, like I should know it all too well. But... I can't even think of where I have seen it or heard of it before. "Ms. Wilder?" The voice says again, pulling me away from my thoughts. I feel a sneer beyond my control come onto my face as I put the phone back on my ear.
"Yes, yes," I say quickly, my voice sounds a little bit annoyed that my sleep is interrupted, "that's me. Meredith Wilder. Who is this?"
"It's Scotland Yard, Ms. Wilder." Amazing. My life couldn't have gotten better. I control my hand from dropping the phone out of my hand.
Okay, hope you did enjoy the prologue. :) I haven't written in present tense, first person POV in such a long time. I have to get back in the groove of it. Let me know what you think and whether or not if I should keep writing it :) I would love to hear your opinions, good or bad. Next chapter we'll see our Sherlock ;)
P.S. Since right now, I have a lot going on, updates are going to be hard to do :( Real life tends to get in the way of my writing life a little too much.