Chapter 28 We’re Back!
We’re Back!
Astrid Mathieson
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and freeze.
My hair looks like I've been through a wind tunnel—or had someone's hands tangled in it all night. Fen and I really just slept. It was comfortable and amazing and I shouldn’t look like I had wild sex because I didn’t.
But my lips are still slightly swollen from his kiss, and there's a flush to my skin that has nothing to do with the morning light filtering through my blinds.
But surely it can’t be from the mind blowing orgasm he gave me in the shower? Can it? Has it really been that long? I dismiss the thought.
"Shit," I mutter, grabbing a brush and attacking my hair with more force than necessary. The knocking continues, accompanied by increasingly creative threats about eating all the breakfast.
"Coming!" I call, and the knocking mercifully stops. I pull my hair back into something resembling my usual ponytail. A quick splash of cold water on my face helps reduce the obvious glow, but there's not much I can do about the satisfied curve that keeps trying to pull at my mouth.
I check the window. Fen's gone, but the memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth... I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. Professional mask. Agent Mathieson. Not the woman who came apart under his masterful mouth in the shower last night.
I open the door to find Ghost and Sherlock grinning like idiots, loaded down with coffee and what smells like fresh croissants from the French bakery three blocks away. The good stuff, not convenience store pastries.
Ghost looks thinner than when I last saw him, but his eyes have that familiar mischievous spark. Sherlock's arm is no longer in a sling, though he favors his left side slightly when he shifts the bakery box. It’s good to see them both.
"Well, well," Ghost says, his eyes immediately scanning my face. "Don't you look... refreshed this morning."
"It's called sleep," I reply, stepping aside to let them in. "You should try it sometime."
Sherlock follows Ghost into my living room, his too-observant gaze cataloging everything as usual. "Sleep, yes. Though typically one doesn't look quite so... tousled after a full night's rest."
I feel heat rise to my cheeks and turn toward the kitchen to hide it. "Coffee. Now. Before I remember why you're both supposed to be on medical leave."
"Ah, but we're not," Ghost says, setting the pastries on my counter with a flourish. "Cleared for active duty as of yesterday. Dr. Patterson signed off on both of us."
I freeze mid-reach for my coffee. Relief floods through me followed immediately by a spike of wariness. Fen... everything suddenly feels more complicated. Still, I can't deny the small thrill that runs through me at the thought of having my team back together. Known verses unknown.
"Which means," Sherlock adds, producing three steaming cups from the bakery, "we're officially back to being your problem."
I accept the coffee gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma. Real coffee, not the swill from the office machine. "Hayes cleared this?"
"Not just cleared it—requested it," Ghost replies, unwrapping what appears to be a chocolate croissant. "Seems our fearless leader has decided you’ve had enough time all to yourself."
Something cold settles in my stomach. Hayes was not feeling that the last time I saw him. I set down my coffee, the satisfied warmth from the morning instantly replaced by professional alarm. "What happened?"
Ghost and Sherlock exchange one of their wordless communications, the kind that comes from years of watching each other's backs in impossible situations.
"More bodies," Ghost says finally. "Three more retired agents. All in Florida. All in one night."
My coffee cup freezes halfway to my lips. "One night? That's impossible."
"That's what we said," Ghost replies grimly. "Miami to Tampa is four hours by car. Tampa to Jacksonville another five. Even with helicopters, the logistics don't work."
"Unless they can fly," Sherlock says, but his tone suggests he doesn't believe it either.
I set down my coffee. "Where were they last seen before Florida?"
The silence that follows makes my stomach drop.
"Paris," Sherlock says quietly. "Two weeks ago. After our encounter with them."
"Paris to Florida." I lean back against the couch, trying to process this. "That's... what, eight thousand miles? Across an entire ocean. Who moved them?"
"Could be boats," Ghost suggests, though he doesn't sound convinced. "Private yacht, shipping container… if someone is helping them or controlling them."
"Maybe," I say, but something about this feels wrong. Fundamentally wrong. "Or maybe we're dealing with something we don't understand at all."
"Hayes is sending another team to investigate," Sherlock says. "They deployed this morning."
My chest clenches. "Another team?"
"No," Ghost interrupts. "But Hayes wants fresh eyes on this. We’re his Hail Mary."
“It’s a mistake,” I hiss out.
Both my partners nod in agreement.
"There's something else," I say, deciding to pivot to information I can actually share. "I found evidence of something bigger during yesterday's warehouse surveillance."
Both men lean forward, instantly alert. I catch Sherlock's eyes narrowing slightly. My pulse quickens, but I keep my face neutral. I mentally rehearse my next sentences, scrubbing them of anything that would reveal my sources.
"Human trafficking," I begin. The raw facts should be enough. No need to mention how I confirmed them. "Mixed with magickal beings. I observed transport vehicles, cage-like structures."
I watch Sherlock as I speak, noting how his eyes track my expressions.
He's looking for tells—the slight shifts that would indicate I'm holding back.
And I am, but years of field work have taught me how to compartmentalize.
I focus on the anger I genuinely feel about the trafficking, letting that emotion color my words naturally.
"Jesus," Ghost breathes. "How many?"
"Hard to say from my position, but at least a dozen. Maybe more." I take a sip of coffee, using the moment to organize my thoughts. "This isn't just creature containment. It's an organized and large operation and I’m nearly certain the Enclave is running it."
Sherlock's expression darkens. "The Enclave? Why would they be trafficking their own people?"
I have so much more information than I can share, but revealing any of it means revealing sources I can't protect. Sources that would also incriminate me.
I've lied to them before. it's part of the job, compartmentalization and need-to-know—but this is different. These aren't agency secrets. They're mine. Personal.
Ghost would understand the gray areas, might even back me if he knew about Fen. But Sherlock operates in black and white. Fraternization with a non-human subject would be an unforgivable breach of protocol in his eyes.
It should scare me how easily I've crossed this line. Instead, all I feel is a fierce determination to protect what Fen and I have started while still bringing down the trafficking ring.
I can do both. I have to do both.
"I don't know, but human trafficking is the lowest form of disgusting. I want them shut down."
The room falls quiet.
Ghost finally breaks the silence. "Let’s meet with Hayes and get this approved. I’m with you."
I blink, momentarily thrown by the immediate support. No demands for more evidence. Just... trust. A knot forms in my throat.
I don't deserve this kind of loyalty while holding back crucial information. But I accept it anyway, because we need to stop the trafficking ring regardless of how we got here.
"Good," I say, hoping my voice doesn't betray the tangle of gratitude and guilt. "Those people can't wait."
Ghost studies my face with uncomfortable intensity. "You're different about this one. More... invested."
Dangerous territory. I force my expression neutral. "Human trafficking pisses me off."
"It pisses all of us off," Sherlock agrees. "But there's something else."
My stomach drops like I've hit free-fall without a parachute.
He sees it. He always sees it. The slight hesitation before I speak. The carefully constructed explanation. The truth buried beneath half-truths.
Sherlock's gaze dissects me layer by layer, and I feel my pulse hammer in my throat. One wrong move—one flicker of guilt in my eyes—and he'll know I'm holding back something critical.
I reach for the anger that's always been my shield. Real anger about the trafficking. Safe anger that doesn't reveal anything about Fen or what we did in my shower last night.
"I'm just tired of being on the bench. This is a real chance to make a difference. Strike a gut punch to the Enclave," I say, letting frustration bleed into my voice. The best lies are wrapped in truth. "I've missed you both."
A beat of silence. Sherlock's eyes haven't left my face, testing the truth of my words against whatever internal scale he uses.
"Fair enough. We're glad to be back with you too," Ghost says, a wide grin breaking across his face.
The tension snaps like a cut wire. Ghost has always been my buffer, intentionally or not. His easy acceptance creates space for Sherlock to back down without losing face.
But Sherlock's slight nod tells me this isn't over. Just postponed. He's filed away his suspicions for later examination.
They each finish off their croissant and head for the door. "See you in Hayes's office."
I watch them go, relief and dread tangling in my chest. The clock is ticking. I need to figure out how much more I can tell them before Sherlock unravels it all himself.