Disclaimer: Sherlock is the belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. Trust me, if he belonged to me I'd do bad, bad things to him ;)

Flash of Gold

Aurelia Singh used to be called Sandra, after her mother. Sandra Singh, dull and reliable. There was a certain ammount of arguements about her name after... well, after what happened.

Bryanne Singh overruled her grandparents. If she was going to raise this child, then she would be Aurelia, the golden child, the brilliant child that could build a working toy car from Skalectrix by the time she was four and a half years old (granted, the wheels stuck a bit and it tended to tip over and lose parts on any surface rougher than the table top, but it was still a car!)

Because Sandra (the original) Singh, was a coward and did not deserve a daughter who was brilliant, intelligent and sweet, and she most certainly didn't deserve one who was strong, relentless and brave like Bryanne, but of course Bryanne was too modest to admit that.


Auriela means golden in Latin. When Bryanne saw her, sickly and pale, a little three year old with fire in her eyes she thought "This girl is pure gold". She was not a girl who should be called Sandra.

Bryanne means strong, though she's not sure in which language. Her father named her, for what he wanted her to be. He was never an optimist, and their mother, Sandra, was never anything but a coward. Funny that he should love her, really.

David Singh was very brave. And very kind. And handsome in gentle giant, dad sort of way, from what Bryanne remembers anyway. He just wanted to help people, and watch his children grow up in a safe world. How he thought he would ever achieve that, I'm not sure. Either way, he was blown to pieces for his trouble.

Sandra is gone.


Aurelia disappeared from her best friend's house, the night of July the 14th, 2009. It was an uncommonly hot evening in the South West of England and they had left the window open to allow a passage of wind. Kathryn, Aurelia's best friend, hadn't even woken, and her room was on the second floor of a house in one of the more crowded areas of Horfield, Filton. The whole street knew the family very well and no-one had seen anything at all.

Aurelia simply vanished off the face of the earth. But she wasn't the first, and she wouldn't be the last.


In May of 1989, Brian Adam Andrews disappeared from the University of West England in the middle of the afternoon while walking from his car to his Advanced Mathematics class. He was 20 years old.

In January of 1990, Sam Marcus Addams disappeared walking home in the early hours of the morning from Manchester University, where he studied Bio-engineering. He was just shy of 30 years old.

In June of 1999, Ana Olivia Harold disappeared from her student flat in Bradley Stoke somewhere between 12 and 9 am. She studied Medical Science at the University of Bath and was top of her class. She was 22 years old.

In July of 2009, Aurelia Carys Singh disappeared from her best friend's house, sometime between 3 and 11 am. She studied Advanced Engineering and Advanced Physics at the University of West England. She was the youngest, at only 18 years old.

There where many more, before and after. People like them had been vanishing since the late 70s. And yet there was no case, open or closed, anywhere. In fact, there was nothing.


"Her father died in Afganistan" John Watson unlocked the door of number 221b Baker Street. His flatmate swept past him. "He was a hero. He saved an entire convoy from a roadside bomb by throwing himself onto it. We owe his family this much"

See John Watson. His soft looking face and gentle smile, mirrored in a strange way by his soft looking block grey, v-neck jumper, to anyone but Sherlock Holmes he'd look more like someones favorite uncle than a military man, than a man who killed other men for Queen and country.

And then there's Sherlock Holmes himself. Tall, icy, and handsome but with a slight... something, that you can't quite put your finger on, and yet it forces you to recoil slightly. Perhaps it's the look in his eyes. Like all that's stopping him from tearing you apart , not for any perverse reason, just to see what makes you tick, is a faint but ingrain sense that it might not be morally right, and curiousity as to what you'll do next.

"John, I owe the man nothing" he answered as he swept up the stairs in his suit and long coat, like a well dressed bat. "No one ever requested my opinion on it, and in return I never asked them to go"

See John Watson. It's quite sweet how he grits his teeth, holding back what would have been any normal persons response of "Oh, fuck off you pompous git". Anyone who lives with Sherlock Holmes for an extended period of time is not normal.


Watch Bryanne. She owns the street. She is hard and sharp like a woman made of steel. She walks like an avalanche, unstoppable. Even though she's short, hell, she's tiny (5'1 if she's an inch) larger people bounce off her or move around.

But for all her confidence, deep down she's nervous. Someone really watching, and I mean really watching, would notice that she keeps glacing over her shoulder. Subtly, maybe, only when she rounds a corner. But she's scared. Terrified.

Bryanne means strong, though she's not sure in which language. In times like this, it provides little comfort.


"How much?" John Watson reeled slightly, but Sherlock seemed unimpressed, rolling his violin bow in his hands.

"A hundred thousand" She repeted. "Half now, and half later. And all you have to do is find her." Bryanne was not rich, but she had savings. Like a squirrel she obsesively store and saved every penny she could spare since she was 17 years old, building a safety net of cash and clever investments around herself, in preparation for a winter that never came.

Until now.

John looked from the girl in front of him, short, tired, her eyes red and her skin pinched from nights upon nights of restless sleep and bad dreams, but still quite beautiful (in the way that a broken doll is still beautiful, twisted and broken and pure), to his roommate, who could care less. He made up his mind.

"We'll do it" He said.

Sherlock almost dropped his bow. "What?"


Aurelia wasn't sure where she was. She was tired and confused and the world seemed to be slipping away.

She didn't understand the white walls.

Or the stiff bed that was more like a plank of wood.

Or the meals delieved three times a day, just as she was beginning to feel a bit better.

But look, here's an engine.

All in pieces on the plain, cold stainless steel table.

The table is bolted to the floor.

The floor is plain, cold concrete.

Aurelia understands engines.