Until that day, you had never thought you would do the following:

1. Be in the interrogation room. That wasn't your job as an agent.

2. Be expected to hold the interrogation. Again, not your division.

3. See your best friend sitting in the hot seat.

4. See Thomas Sherlock Holmes be interrogated for murder.

5. Watch it unfold.

"Are you familiar with any of these crime scenes?"

"Are you familiar with Amnesty Woonura?"

"Why did Hamlet Shooms recognize you if you say you do not know him?"

And all his sassy remarks, you had to bite your tongue.

"If you are trying to see my emotional response, you know I do not show any in crime scenes, even when it's proven that I have nothing to do with it. I am a consulting detective. Why should I cringe at what I expect?"

"Yes, but only as of twenty minutes, but I can tell you more about her than the two hours you've spent looking at her case file."

"Did you idiots check him for mental stability? Obviously Amnesty was poisoned, so is the same poison in him?"

Even as his points were manifested as truth, he was still held prisoner.

"Can you finish the case without him?" Lestrade asks as he comes back from the room.

"That's my partner in there. If you want to tag along as we solve this case, then fine, but I solve murder with him."

"Then I have to dismiss you from this case and keep you here as an accessory." Finding your inner sass, you take his handcuffs from his belt and cuff yours and his wrists together.

"I don't think you understood me. Tom is innocent, and if you want any chance of finding the real killer, you need him."

~

Three hours later, not only was Tom released, but so was his face.

Consulting Detective Arrested: Mastermind All Along?

Sherlock Holmes: Hero or Villain?

The Man in the Hat Turns into the Man In Cuffs

Why Sherlock Holmes Is Guilty

Can Cold Cases Be the Work of the Great Detective?

"Rubbish," Tom says as he throws them into the fireplace, not caring that it's not even on. For those three hours, he had solved the case, but not telling you so. He was working on a case of his own, the mastermind behind Hamlet being drugged to kill Amnesty: Phillip Coulson.

His experience, his tactics—all wiped clean, save the personal things you had mentioned in your social media pages: he loved to travel with you to exotic places, went to college with you, loved to get souvenirs, made friends easily - he knew about local medicines and poisons from all over world, how to charm and, therefore, how to smuggle, and smart enough to also be recruited, even if it wasn't for good intentions.

What Tom didn't know is that you were smart enough to track his computer and phone, seeing the websites he was going on, seeing everything he had sent and was editing, and connecting the dots like him. Without him knowing, you were solving your own case: what they were hiding from you.

You had gotten into the emails, into the text messages that he sent. You had found secret emails and text messages from and to "JM," Phillip James Moriarty Coulson; messages of burning, of IOUs, of crimes you had previously solved, of the blackout you had, even up to the texts that were happening as you snooped.

I didn't tell her.

I know.

Then this purpose is one that I'm not in control of.

You've always had control. Now you have the control to save yourself or save the people most important to you. Do not think she is exempt.

It's over, then.

After three hours, you walk into the living room. Tom scans you: going out, looking somewhat decent, smaller bag along with small suitcase. Coupled with your laptop going missing an hour earlier and that you were swallowing your pride, he knew.

"Airport?"

"Yeah."

"You took the job."

"No." He gets up abruptly and heads for his violin, but, letting go of your suitcase, you rush over and slap his hands. He darts his head to you.

"Do you mind?" he snaps. "We're in the middle of a case, my reputation is on the line, and you're just going to pick up and leave."

"You were right. You said 'make it simple', so this is me doing so. I'm going back home." This is me trying to save you.

"(Y/N), you can't."

"Any why not?" You were hoping something along the lines of the truth or how he felt, but neither came to be.

"Because I said so. And I need someone who knows how to make my tea." Your voice caught in your throat, and you begun to speak without thinking.

"Didn't I mean anything to you? Was I ever good enough for you?"

"You had your place, like a hedgehog. Somewhat meaningless." Getting angry, you throw down your bag and march right up to him.

"Alright then. You look at me, right in my eyes, and tell me exactly how you feel. Tell me our friendship was nothing to you—that I'm nothing more than a stranger and that you don't care—and I'll leave. But tell me otherwise, and I'll stay."

Not skipping a beat, he responds, "I don't know you. I never cared."

Tears brimmed your eyes. "Partner," "best friend"—all just letters with no meanings. Without a word, you grab your things and exit the apartment.

You don't hear him crying too. You don't hear his heart breaking as he had to lie to you in your very face, knowing good and well that he didn't mean a single word. You didn't hear him wishing that he could take it back and come up with a scheme to save you both, but it was already out there, gone from his lips and sinking into your heart.

His phone rings. A text message with an address.

Meet me at the roof. And don't get smart, or I'll give the order and down goes your fleet.

Another message comes in as he gets into the taxi.

Including Y/N. You didn't save her yet; you will never save her.