It was late. Sherlock had asked me for several peculiar items previously that evening; a box of fireworks, rubber bands, a copy today's paper, human hair, and milk. Hardly an errand to be filled at such an hour, but it was better than listening to him yelling at the telly or complaining about his lack of interest in existing. Such a bother, isn't it?
Despite his querulous state, he really was worrying me. There hadn't been a case in ages and I could see Sherlock's mind gnawing away at his patience. The past couple days he hadn't been speaking and rarely showed his face for more than a couple of minutes. He was either in his room or out. Out...It literally could have been anywhere. Tonight, however, he had emerged from his room with his blue robe slung carelessly over his pajamas, blathering about infomercials and experiments. This brought me here, to the sopping streets of London, bathed in a slippery coat of fresh rain.
My jacket was ruined. Leather, I had bought it at a small tailor while Sherlock was on one of his many missions. What remained looked like bleach had been spilled in blotchy patches all over the front, vaguely reminiscent of an orange-brown cow. Luckily, the lights of 221B Baker Street loomed only a block away, but as I trudged closer I noticed an unfamiliar car parked outside it.
"Oh, what now, Sherlock?" I muttered irritably under my breath.
One thing at a time, John.
I came to a halt in front the handsome red roof of Speedy's, the homey coffee shop beside our flat, and confirmed my apprehension. Our carefully crafted door, with its elegant metal knocker and fine wooden structure, stood ajar.
I swallowed my heart.
"Mrs. Hudson?" I called, pushing past the door slowly.
I climbed up the worn crooked stairs, watching the framed archways, waiting for anything at all.
"Sherlock?"
I reached the top and was met by yet another vacant doorway. Instead of crashing through it and discovering the intruder, which I assumed to be Sherlock anyway, I merely glanced past it nervously.
In the reflection of the black windows opposite me, was a figure. Not the tall, slim silhouette I knew, but another, one I did not recognize.
Silently, I gripped the handle and raised my arm, wielding my shopping bags as a club. I took a deep breath and crept down the hallway to the living room, cringing with every step. I paused at the corner, trying desperately to make out the face of the reflection in the sitting room windows. They were now only feet away from where I stood. I could hear my heart blaring in my ears and my hands began to tighten on the plastic bags.
Just a little bit further now...
"John, what are-"
Without thinking, I whirled around and flung the shopping bags blindly at the voice, which completely set me off my balance. I stumbled backwards into the living room, unfortunately right into the path of the stranger behind me.
To my surprise, as I tripped over the coffee table and onto the hard wooden floor, the stranger yelped. The kind of high pitched squeal you might hear from a woman if she saw something particularly unpleasant, the complete opposite of the man I had swung at, now walking slowly towards me.
"Are you mad?" Sherlock said, clutching his forehead as a trail of red began to drip down his hollow cheeks.
He was dressed in his usual black, button-up jacket, which he must have changed into when I had left. I could tell he had been out again; his hair was wet and matted to his face, which was even paler than usual. Except for, of course, his nose, which had been turned a bright shade of pink by the chilling weather. Frankly, he looked rather ridiculous.
"Don't-" I spluttered, angrily, scrambling to my feet, "-sneak up on people like that!"
"I sneaked up on you?" Sherlock retorted, drawing himself up incredulously, "I simply walked up to you stalking my client."
"Client?" I said, now eying the frail young woman, who was cowering against the opposite wall, clutching her chest and whimpering.
"You have a case then?"
"Yes," He sighed, "And I was going to offer Ms. Pier some tea, but you seem to have knocked it all over the floor-
"And on me." He added disdainfully, looking down at his stained apparel.
"Sorry!" I said, begrudgingly. "I thought someone had broken in by the state of the door!"
"Y-yes," stuttered the woman, raising a small quivering hand, mascara dribbling down her puffy face, "I w-was in a h-hurry. S-sorry."
"It's quite alright Ms. Pier," Sherlock said, turning his back to me and ushering her to the armchair across from him, "Please, sit."
She did not move. The poor girl was trembling so violently that I could hear her teeth chatter. She, too, looked as though she had been outside, her baggy sweatshirt was sagging with water and her jeans were torn and soaked with dirt.
"Are you alright?" I asked, taking a step towards her.
"She's fine, John." Sherlock hissed, impatiently, "Just sit, Ms. Pier."
"She's hurt, Sherlock!" I exclaimed, gesturing to her swollen knees and twisted ankles, "I really think we should-"
Suddenly, she collapsed forward, clutching the edges of my jacket and sobbing uncontrollably.
Sherlock grumbled and threw himself onto the couch.
"Sherlock," I said, turning to him while still trying to steady Ms. Pier. "Do something!"
"Why!" Sherlock spat over her blubbering, "She's been like this ever since I found her pounding at my door. Took me at least 10 minutes to get her to come inside, and still all she does is cry, cry, cry."
"He doesn't mean it," I muttered to her, trying to walk her to her seat, "He's just very impatient."
"I-I-I," She gasped, finally releasing me and falling back into the cushions, "I'm s-s-s-"
"Sorry?" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "Yes, we know."
At that she wailed into her hands, and her breathing became even more convulsive. I sat on the arm of the chair and pulled a woven blanket over her shoulders.
"Calm down," I said to her softly, trying to quell her panic, "It's alright."
"N-no-" She started, but I quieted her; she was no use talking in this state anyway.
After a few minutes of deep breaths, and Sherlock sulking on the sofa, she finally came to.
"My name is-" she started slowly, Sherlock raising his head in interest. "Ann Pier."
"You're not from here," Sherlock muttered, perching his thumbs under his chin and folding his fingers in front of him. "America?"
"Yes!" She said, excitedly. "My brother and I… we're here on vacation."
"No parents with you? You seem a bit young to be traveling alone."
"Yes," She said again, nodding vigorously, "I'm 17 and my brother is 12. We came here with our father…"
Her eyes began to well with tears and I put a hand on her shoulder.
"They're gone," she cried, slumping forward and grabbing hold of my arm, "I don't know what to do."
"Gone?" I said, trying desperately to console her sorrow, "You mean they left you?"
"No!" She shrieked, panic rising once more in her voice, "They were taken… s-somebody took them."
Sherlock was staring at the young girl, his eyes widening with interest and enthusiasm. I could tell his mind was feverishly working, conjoining parts and fitting pieces, leaving me helpless with my hopelessly obtuse brain.
"These people…" He said in a low voice, almost to himself. "They tried to take you, too."
"They came in the m-middle of the night," She replied, rubbing at her face. "I-I was r-reading, and all of the sudden, the l-lights go out. E-everything just went out. They j-just came in and g-grabbed me. They grabbed a-all of us… took us outside… couldn't do anything."
"And?" Sherlock said, pressing her further.
"A-and," She continued, shaken. "The one h-holding m-me… he just-"
"Let you go."
"Yes," she nodded. "H-he said if I called the p-police, he would k-kill my family."
"So you came here?" Sherlock replied, nonchalantly. "How did you know to come here?"
"M-my dad, he told me about you," She said, her eyes gazing up at him as if he was an oracle. "Said if anything should happen, I-I should find you."
"If anything should happen?" Sherlock repeated, narrowing his eyes. "Why would your father say something like that on a vacation?"
"I don't know," she said, holding her head in anguish. "He was acting strange all week. Like something was bothering him…"
Sherlock sat silently, staring up at the cracked plastered ceiling, stifling a smile.
"Did they give you time?"
"W-what?" She quavered, perplexed.
"Time!" Sherlock shouted, suddenly standing up and pacing about the room. "Did they give you a time limit?"
"F-for what?" She said, her eyes following him. "Please, Mr. Holmes, they didn't say anything to me, besides what I've already told you!"
He then stopped in his tracks, the grin widening on his face.
"But he sent you here, didn't he?"
Sherlock walked swiftly towards me, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from Anne.
"She is the time limit, John," Sherlock whispered, smiling broadly.
"What?" I said, and once again, Sherlock shot me that look. The look I knew meant he was mentally taking my face and slapping me for being so incomprehensibly slow.
"Think, John," he said, pulling me further from Anne, who was poking her head over the couch and peering avidly towards us. "If they really did have the intention of capturing the entire family, why on Earth would they let this child go, knowing full well she knew who and where to contact for assistance when going to the police was not an option?"
Then it came to me, the kind of feeling you get when you're riding on a bus and it goes over a sudden hill, plunging downwards. "She's bait?"
"Don't be so insensitive," Sherlock replied, yet still grinning like a child on Christmas morning, "She's far more than just bait. She's a puzzle, a clue. We find the captors before-"
"They take her too?"
"Yes, well," Sherlock said, straightening up, "hopefully it won't come to that."
"You really think she was sent here just to provoke you?" I muttered skeptically, shooting Anne a glance. Then a sudden thought occurred to me.
"You don't think… it's him… do you?"
"I don't know," Sherlock lowered his voice to a low hum. "I can't make any conclusions just yet. But if it is… him… what we are dealing with now is extremely dangerous. I suggest we get going on this as soon as possible, lest we run out of time."
"How much time do we have?"
Sherlock paused, and then he whispered. "Perhaps it is not time, John, but rather destination. I suspect whoever kidnapped Ms. Pier's family wants us to find them; otherwise there would have been no point in releasing her. The end of this game ends with them, or us."
"Either that or the clock hasn't started ticking quite yet," He added, turning to face our guest. "It's our move, John."
"Will you help me, Sherlock Holmes?" she sniffed, standing up and walking towards him imploringly.
"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, uncomfortably. "I'll do my best but I can't make any…"
She lunged at him, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."
"Please, don't," Sherlock drawled, pushing her forcefully away from him. "My clothes are already stained from my faithful assistant. I don't need to add your… secretions."
At that, she flushed and quickly wiped her nose, sheepishly reaching into her pocket.
"Anyway, I can pay you…"
She pulled out a stack of American bills, wrapped in tightly bound paper. Anne held it out to Sherlock who did not budge.
"How much is that?" I said, taking the bound paper from her. "6,000 Pounds? We can't possibly accept this."
"Exactly," Sherlock said, snatching the money from my grasp and handing it back to her. "because I only accept payment when the job is fully complete. I can only guarantee to you that I will find your family…"
She beamed at him, but he added scornfully. "The only problem is that I can't guarantee I'll find them alive, which is what I am assuming you're paying me for."
The color drained from her face, but instead of crumpling up and weeping, she merely muttered dangerously. "Fine," and promptly turned for the door.
Sherlock and I looked at each other.
"Come on!" She shouted angrily, standing in the open threshold.
We hastily grabbed our coats from the iron hangers and started after her, until I hesitated.
"Come on!" She repeated, disappearing behind the blue chipped wood.
"Yes, come on, John!" Sherlock smiled, wrapping his blue-knitted scarf around his neck. "Don't want to be late for a good game."
"Sherlock, something's off."
I couldn't tell you why, but this was something deep seated, something I could just feel in pit of my stomach.
"I don't like this."
"Not to worry," Sherlock said, patting me heartily on the shoulder, "with all that cash she'll definitely pay for the cab fair."
"That's not what I meant!" but by the time the words had left my mouth, he was already trotting out the door.
I sighed and grimly followed them.
This will all end in tears.