Chapter 1: Thorn
The pale white moon streaked across the seats of the taxi, illuminating Sherlock's silver eyes in the blackness. John Watson traced a circle on the cold car window, looking out at the golden glow of London's lights. People rode the Eye in the distance, the grand old Ferris wheel spinning sleepily in the dark. Lampposts were strung with shimmering ornaments for Christmas, and the scent of pine was heavy in the air. Snow drifted in delicate wisps to the sidewalk. It was beautiful all over England that night: but Sherlock barely glanced at the glistening ice, the tinsel stars, or the smoky evergreens. No, the world's only consulting detective was focused on his latest case. There was no room for splendor. "Sherlock, you've dragged me along with you all day, pestering me about a new case. It might help if you told me what was going on," John complained. "With you and your bloody energy, you're constantly throwing yourself into danger. It's a wonder we're still alive." Sherlock rolled his eyes but cleared his throat, before handing a folded newspaper to his flat-mate. Water streaked across the page with bleeding fingers, marring the portrait of a young woman with a sapphire necklace wrapped around her slender throat. The woman had dark brown hair which cascaded around her shoulders in soft waves. Her thin fingers reached up to lightly touch the deep blue jewels. "This is Cordelia Rivers. Her necklace, worth fifty thousand pounds, is missing. It appears there was a break-in two days ago at her apartments; she contacted the police, but they weren't able to find any traces of evidence, so she called me. Scotland Yard is full of incompetence." The younger Holmes hissed the last part. "And we're going to their home now? It's almost two in the morning," John pointed out. Sherlock sent him an icy glare. "Miss Rivers said she would prefer a later investigation. I don't usually sleep anyway, so…" he shrugged. "Well, not all of us are robots," John muttered. Sherlock fell silent, and John sighed, realizing it would be another long night…
The worn rubber tires purred to a halt in the fringe of lily-white snow. Sherlock paid the fare, popped the corners of his collar to deflect the wind, and ruffled his thick curls. His sharp cheekbones graced his face with regality, and his Belstaff whipped majestically in the wind. "Do you always have to be so dramatic?" John quipped, beating his friend to the faded red door. Knocking briskly, he watched as Sherlock stepped forward to inspect the doorframe. His eyes flitted quickly across the material. "The woman who lives here is OCD, because the knocker is perfectly straight, and the slip of paper with her name on it is written perfectly. She is a size seven, considering the length of the footprints on the doormat; they have a ginger cat, receive the Yellow Pages, and have been living here for a while judging by the wear on the doorbell you neglected to use," the detective pushed the button, leaving to John to blush. A moment passed before the door opened and the woman from the newspaper peeked out. She was lovely; with a dusting of black eyelashes, pink cheeks, and her brown hair curled into a loose bun. "Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock greeted briefly, extending his hand. They both shook firmly, before the woman let them through into her flat. "Please, come and sit at the table," she offered. She led the two men into another room filled with spindly antiques. The peeling wallpaper was dressed with violets, the lace drapes riddled with holes, and the rusted pipes groaned in the walls. John could tell that the room was once beautiful; Russian teacups balanced on an ancient desktop, a gilded statue of a goddess perched on a lamp. Useless treasures were scattered everywhere, hidden beneath twinkling layers of dust. "I'm afraid it's a little cold in here," Cordelia apologized. "The heat is broken." Sherlock waved it away, and then began to question her. "What a lovely home," he began, confusing his friend. The detective never complimented clients. "Oh, why thank you. It was originally my grandmother's house. She had a taste for Victorian styles. When she passed away, she left all of her furniture here." A fond smile lingered on her rosy lips for a moment before fading. "You inherited this from your grandmother? Where are your parents?" Sherlock asked. At the mention of them, her face crumpled slightly. "They died while she was still alive. That was about five years ago. Gran perished two years after that." Sherlock folded his clever hands underneath his pale chin. "How did they die?"
"They went on a vacation in the Caribbean. They went swimming in the ocean but they drowned. Their bodies were found drifting a few hours later." She looked so upset that John placed his rough hand on her smooth white one. She smiled again, appreciatively. "I work as-"
"A governess," Sherlock interrupted. "Your charges are four to six years old, if the wrinkles on your skirt are any indication. You wear clothes appropriate for play, but not anything revealing. Your hair is simple, your posture casual. You have sharp eyes which look for faults, and flexible shoes for running." Cordelia looked shaken, but John just shook his head at her. "This is how he operates, reads you like a book. Often he seems to know your secrets better than you do. He can tell your entire life story by a wrinkle in your forehead," he explained. "It's bloody creepy if you ask me," he continued, winking. She laughed before addressing Sherlock again. "How marvelous. I certainly hired the best. I've heard wonderful tales of you, Mr. Holmes." All of a sudden, there was an ear-splitting crash. All three of them leapt to their feet, startled. Cordelia's face was ashen as she fled to a winding staircase, engraved with pictures of suns and moons. A feline mewed anxiously, dashing from the staircase, its reddish fur darting underneath a chair. "Thorn? Are you hurt? Thorn!" the woman's cries became increasingly panicked as she began to climb the steps, picking up her thin, angelic skirt as she did so. A timid voice floated downstairs. "I'm fine, Delia. Thank you for your concern, but everything is okay." Cordelia's face relaxed and she cupped her bun in one hand, smoothing her skirt, before calling: "Please come down. Now." Her voice was firm and motherly, Sherlock noted. Could she be caring for a child? His suspicions were confirmed as a girl glided along the polished bannister and to the floor below. She was slender, wearing a pink slip and had ink black hair French braided and tucked across a bony shoulder. "What is it?" she sounded impatient. Sherlock deducted that she was eight years old, was fond of painting due to the calluses on her hand where she had gripped the brush, and had a rebellious nature. "Thorn, what happened? We heard the crash from here. What were you doing this time?" There was a pause. Thorn stared into Cordelia's eyes, her warm brown ones reminding Sherlock of melting chocolate. "I was experimenting again… a beaker shattered when I added a certain chemical. Don't worry, I cleaned up the glass. I think Lucifer might have a shard in his paw, though." She gestured to the fluffed up tom sulking in the corner. Cordelia sighed before reaching out and lightly brushing the girl's cheek. "You have to be more careful, Thorn. If you were hurt, I could never forgive myself." She stepped back and scooped the disgruntled cat into her arms. "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is my little sister Thorn. She was here when the burglary occurred. You may question her, if you like." Sherlock motioned to her with distaste. "She's only a child: I doubt she remembers anything of importance, or will confuse her facts."
Thorn gazed at the two men petulantly, before scanning John, her irises instantly ablaze. "You would be surprised," she challenged the detective. "I can read your flat-mate right to left." Sherlock's silver eyes narrowed, tinged with blue fire. "Go on, then. Let's see what you can deduce." He leaned against the staircase, his lean body arching to fit the curves of the banister. Thorn snapped her focus to the whiskered blond doctor.
"You're a physician, and an ex-soldier. You have a limp, but you carry yourself like a captain. I can see the grooves on the inside of your hand from where you held a gun in place. You were sent home because of a leg injury. You're allergic to cats due to the irritation around your eyes, and are sleep-deprived. Most likely because of your friend here." She looked at Sherlock, her dancing eyes flickering with mischief. "The conditions of the universe made me too young for most people to take me seriously. I hope we do not have that problem, Mr. Holmes." John's mouth opened slightly in shock: it was like he was searching the face of a young Sherlock. "Thorn!" the icy voice of Cordelia chastened her. "I told you not to make deductions like that! You'll frighten the neighbors away." Thorn blushed slightly. "I'm sorry, but I had to prove a point. Not all children are clueless, wandering around, skipping rocks and whistling like in old films. I'm capable of explaining part of the mystery to the revered detective." She cast a sly look at Sherlock. "But if you won't listen to me, then I'll leave…" she added. She wandered over to the stairwell, stretching a toned calf before running a pale finger over the dark cherry wood. "No, don't leave. I can see I've made a mistake. May we speak together?" Sherlock protested quickly, sealing his decision. Thorn looked at Cordelia who nodded after a beat. "Show him to the living room, dear. And take care of Lucifer's paw." The elder Rivers handed the fiery tangle of fur to Thorn, before offering John a cup of hot tea; they migrated to the kitchen like birds to the south. Cradling the cat to her chest, Thorn ghosted into another part of the embellished flat, leaving Sherlock no choice but to follow.
A/N: Hello! Do you like it so far? Don't worry, this is just a preview, you'll learn more about her in the next chapter. Do you like Thorn's observant character? I'm sorry for all of the descriptiveness, I'll try to cut back on it in future chapters. This is my first Fanfiction, so please, review, critique, and continue reading! Would you like to see an update? Should I move forward with this? Please let me know!
-TheArtist59