This is my first Sherlock fan fiction, probably not my last either. The BBC version of Sherlock is probably my favorite out of all the different versions of the ageless show- mainly because Benedict Cumberbatch is in it. Yes, you guessed it, I'm a Cumberbitch. -winky face, winky face-
Now, just to set he setting and time in the story, it's several months after Reichenbach Fall. I was going to begin the story at the beginning of the second series, but I just have so much feels for the last episode, even though Sherlock didn't actually kill himself, it still made me ball my motherfucking eyes out.
But namely, this story is based on an American girl who witnessed a crime back in the States and was sent into the Witness Protection Agency and therefore, moved to London under a different name, and a different career.
Even though I don't really see the point in this, seeing that this is a fan fiction site, but I do not own Sherlock in any way. I only claim rights to my own character and the story plot.
It was getting late.
But Sophie- who was now legally named Avery- couldn't bring herself to fall asleep. Everything was just so strange and unreal, who could find rest while dealing with what was on her mind? It was nearly impossible.
With shaking hands, the said girl brought the piece of paper she'd been staring at for the past hour to her chest as she thought over what the paper had said. It wasn't anything lengthy, it just said the basic rules she's supposed to follow in order to keep her identity a secrete.
Yes, her true identity needs to be kept locked up in some far away tower, long from any human contact.
In all honesty, it was much harder to deal with- losing your former self and becoming an entirely different human being all together. With a new 'family' and all. But, in her 'new' family she only had a mother and a grandfather who had gone deaf three years ago. It was all fake, yes, but she had to play along.
It was exactly three weeks ago that Sophia Faye Brooklyn had witnessed the murder of an elderly couple one night from walking home from the library. She was just an innocent bystander, but she had seen something that was not meant for her eyes. So, she let off an ear-piercing scream. Then a cry for help, running away as she did so. But when police officials arrived to the crime scene, there was nothing there. Not a single drop of blood, or a boot print, not even a sign that there was a struggle.
It was all perplexing for Sophie, she was most certain that she saw that poor couple's bodies laying on the cold ground with three men hunched over them. That wasn't something one could make up in their mind unless they're insane, and that, she was sure, was something she was not.
The police ended up brushing it off like it wasn't anything, saying that she might have seen something that she had just mistaken as a murder. And nothing was done that night.
And sadly enough, that night the murderers involved had seen the poor girl's face before she ran away, and, unbeknownst to her at the time, Sophie became their next target.
A week after the young girl saw the gruesome homicide, the murderers had made it clear that they wanted her dead by showing up at her house one night, threatening her with a knife. They had nearly killed the girl, but Sophie managed to escape with a nasty cut on her left side, most likely to leave a nasty scar.
After that had been reported, the police got a report of two bodies found in a local lake in the next city that was later identified as an elderly couple that Sophie had claimed to see killed that night. The police finally managed to track the identities of the murderers as two of them being on America's Most Wanted list, and the other just a random male who had been accompanying them for a few months.
Sophie was immediately approved for the Witness Protection Program and therefore professionals had planned out her entire new life that she was going to live until the killers were caught and her life was deemed safe.
Sophie Faye Brooklyn was no longer alive, seeing that the WPA (Witness Protection Agency) faked her death by running her car off of the side of a mountain, with a dummy inside, and her car was then set on fire.
After her 'death' being confirmed by a local morgue, her family was contacted without the actual truth, and was told that she had died in that unfaithful car crash. A funeral was soon set up, and Sophia Brooklyn was officially dead at the age of twenty-five.
The girl's new name was Avery Michelle Wayne, she was twenty-one and a recently graduate of a community college in America, who then moved to London, England, in start of her new job as a nature photographer for a magazine called Nature Today.
Sophie- who was now, Avery- had left behind a life that she was completely content with. She had been working as a librarian in her hometown with a few of her high school best friends. Her mother was just about to re-marry again, to some guy she met at her AA meeting.
Yes, her mother is a recovering alcoholic. After the death of her husband, Sophie's father, two years back, her poor mother just couldn't handle losing someone she had been in love with since she was a young girl, and had taken up drinking as a solution.
It made Sophie thing about a guy she met at the library. Carl, his name had been. They met a few times before, always talking about nerd-tastic things such as astrology. And one week, Carl finally asked her out on a date, but a day before the day could even come was supposedly the day she 'died'.
Her moving to a different country, under a different name- living a stranger's life, and having her loved ones think that she was dead, that already had killed her. Her plummeting off the side of a mountain and burning to death didn't compare to what she was dealing with at the moment.
Sophie told herself that she wasn't going to cry, she had always been a strong girl. But the last few weeks has proven to her that she wasn't as strong as she led herself on to be. But then again, look what she was dealing with.
Witnessing a murder.
Being sent to another country under a different identity.
Her entire family and her friends thinks she's dead.
It was all too much, she was even prescribed to be placed on anti-depressants. Which helped, but not entirely.
Sophie closed her eyes and prayed to whatever was up there, that everything would work out and she could return home with her true identity.
-Four months later-
Sherlock stared at the dead bodies before. Eyes scanning and taking in every single detail that they could possibly offer him even more so than that.
He crouched down to get a closer look, inspecting the smaller details in order to get some newer information that could lead to the killer.
Sherlock placed his hand underneath of his chin, as both of his elbows rested on his knees. Steele eyes flickered to and fro, as the cogs began to turn in the man's mind. A slow smile crept upon his lips as soon as he figured it out.
"Sherlock?" John Watson, Sherlock's best friend and assistant spoke from his side. "What did you-"
Before John could finish his question, Sherlock was already voicing his answers.
"Obviously a murder," The consulting detective started, standing up but keeping his eyes locked onto the murder victims before him. "Sloppy, but still a murder. There were at least a total of four people in the room, including the dead couple. So the other two were the murders."
"How did you figure there were two of them?" Detective Inspector Gregg Lestrade spoke up behind Sherlock and John. His arms were crossed and he seemed to have a flicker of doubt flash across his face, even though he knew that Sherlock was always right.
"Let me get there." Sherlock snapped.
"How do you know they're a couple?" John asked.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They both have the same wedding rings on. Same style and are both at least six years old judging by the marks on both of them. Honestly, John, don't you ever actually observe?"
John huffed at his friend's insults but kept quiet so he could finish his deductions.
"The woman-" Sherlock returned to his theory of the homicide, glancing back at John then stepping aside so the doctor could have a better look. "Is approximately seven feet from her husband's body, with a bruised wrist and neck and an indention in her right palm. A knife wound on her left side, which is the cause of her death. The heel on her right shoe is snapped, so it's a sign of struggle."
John flickered his eyes back and forth between the wife, whose body lays in the center of the living room in an abandoned house. And the husband's body, who then was laying directly in front of the window. He didn't say anything, only letting Sherlock continue knowing that he has a logical explanation.
"The woman must have been holding something-" Sherlock began, but was cut off.
"A weapon?" Piped in Anderson, who stood by the doorway.
Sherlock's eyes twitched at the sound of the man's voice. "Only an idiot would think that." Was his reply, and thankful enough, Anderson didn't respond, he only rolled his eyes. "She wasn't holding a weapon, have you seen what she's wearing? No woman would go out dressed like that and be carrying a weapon. She wasn't expecting this, no. Her and her husband weren't. So they must've been meeting up with someone, or some people that they knew and trusted."
"Then what could she have possible been holding?" John asked.
Sherlock whipped around and gave John a smirk. "What do you think, John?"
The doctor shifted from one foot to another. He hated when Sherlock did this. Asking him questions when it was clear that Sherlock, and Sherlock alone, knew the answer. John swore he only did that just to make people nervous and then point them out like idiots. What the hell was he talking about? That's Sherlock's goal every single day; making people feel stupid.
"Enlighten me," John replied, crossing his arms over his chest.
If it annoyed him, Sherlock made no sign of it as he continued his explanation. "It wasn't a weapon that she was holding, but something of value, a box judging by the shape of the indention in her palm. Her attacker grabbed her first, by her left wrist, then by her neck. Then the other attacker managed to snatch up her husband before he could make his own escape, grabbing him by the back of his neck and slitting it, killing him instantly. The wife panicked at the site of her husband's death and started to struggle more against her attacker's hold. In result, breaking the heel of her left shoe and her attacker inserting the knife into her left side, killing her."
Lestrade took a step forward to the dark, curly-haired detective. "How did you come up with who was killed first?"
Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Is it honestly that hard to see? I know you're not that stupid, detective inspector."
"Just tell me how, dammit!" The DI growled.
"The wounds on her body are a minute older than the ones on her husband's body." He answered a little too thrilled.
"How-"
"The color of the blood, Gregg, the color!" Sherlock threw his arms up in a huff at the lack of knowledge these people have. He then moved over to the window where the man laid. "The wood on the window, it was scratched by the man his attacker came up behind him; he grabbed it in hopes that it would prevent the attacker any further progress. He clutched onto it with enough force to pull back his nails, leaving a trace of blood and indents in the wood."
John walked closer to the man's body and sure enough, confirmed what Sherlock was saying. "His fingernails are turned up, torn, and bloody." He added, looking at Lestrade.
The DI nodded his head towards the doctor in acknowledgement before looking at Sherlock. "I'm guessing the blood on the window and the marks are newer than the marks on her body?"
"That's what I've been saying!" Sherlock growled in annoyance.
Just then, Sally Donavon came rushing into the room with a paper in hand.
"Sir!" She called toward Lestrade, ignoring the others in the room for the time being. "I have those results you wanted. I ran her credit card and her name came up as Anne Schmitt, and her husband there-" She motioned to the male, "is her husband, Harold Schmitt."
Lestrade nodded his head in approval. Both because of Donavon's results and because of Sherlock's deductions, though mainly for the latter. "What else?"
"The wife works at a magazine company as an editor in photography for a magazine called Nature Today. And the husband was unemployed, but did a few jobs for his wife along the road."
Sherlock digested the information for a minute before pulling off the white, plastic gloves off of his hands and headed for the door, stepping over the dead man's body as he went.
"John!" He yelled from the hallway. "Let's go!"
John did as Sherlock said, but scowled and muttered a few curses at his friend's behavior, saying good-bye to the DI and Donavon as he headed out of the building.
"Sherlock," John said, trying to catch his breath as Sherlock called a taxi from the busy streets of London. "Where are we going?"
A taxi pulled up to the curve and Sherlock stepped inside, followed suit by his best friend.
"Baker Street." Said the detective to both John and the cabby as he pulled out his phone and began to search something on the internet.
John's annoyance just grew for the millionth time that night. "You just ran out of there like a mad man just so we can go home?" He hissed.
Sherlock paid no mind, just sat there searching for something on his phone. John rolled his eyes at his behavior and stared off out of the window.
Even though most of the time Sherlock's attitude was of a child's and he hardly ever acted human, John couldn't be more content with his best friend by his side. Actually, John couldn't imagine his life without Sherlock in it- as gay at that sounded. And he never really understood this until he watched him jump off of a building, just to save the three people he cared most for.
Now, of course Sherlock didn't actually kill himself. With a few helping hands of Molly and the Homeless Network, Sherlock made it look as if he did commit suicide. It was all a trick, but a very damn good one too.
Upon watching Sherlock Holmes commit 'suicide', it was then that John realized how much he actually cared for the damn sod. Regardless of what people thought of him, Sherlock is an amazing man. He may not seem like it most of the time, but John's not stupid, oh he's far from it- even Sherlock himself stated that. John's seen his friend at his highest, and at his very lowest.
He honestly thought of Sherlock Holmes, the high-functioning sociopath, as his best mate.
"Stop!" Sherlock yelled at once, bringing he doctor out of his thoughts as the cabby came to a halt.
"What the bloody hell?" John scolded him, his own heart beating out of his chest due to his friend's random outburst.
"Take me to this address right now!" Sherlock told the cabby, holding his phone up to him so he could read the address that his costumers wanted to go to.
John looked over at Sherlock, wondering what he's about to bring him into.
"Now where are we going?" He asked annoyed.
Sherlock turned to him and gave him a smirk. "To Today's Nature magazine company."
John groaned.
This was going to be a long, long night.
Review please?
Tibble.