Hey kids, Wolf Girl here. This Sherlock fanfic is set to take place sometime after Sherlock's experience with Irene Adler, but before Moriarty starts trying to tear Sherlock apart. Let me know what you think in the reviews, enjoy!
Samantha swung her feet lackadaisically over the edge of the rooftop. She was humming Sweet Caroline as she tore the rind off of a navel orange.
She gazed out at the sunset flooding through the city skyline. Amber rays illuminated her blonde hair magnificently. Sam fancied London. She'd traveled many places in her time, but always seemed to find herself here. Maybe it was the culture, or perhaps the night life. What brought her here this time, however, was to visit an old friend. He should be coming home any minute now, so she was waiting on the roof to spot him. She let a slice of the peel float down to the street below.
As she progressed closer to the chorus of the song she was humming, she found herself mumbling the words louder and louder. Finally, she broke out into song - "Sweet Caroline…"
"Bum bum bum!"
She snapped her head back to see a squalid looking man aiming what was unmistakably a tranquilizer gun at her. "Sorry, couldn't help it," he sneered, right before pulling the trigger.
Sam cried as a hefty dart dug itself into her neck. She disciplined herself to flee immediately; distance herself from the attacker as quickly and effectively as possible. Never fight back, they're rarely alone.
Sam winced as the attacker managed to plant another one in her before her descent. She threw her center of gravity forward, slipping down the side of the building. Upon landing, she wrenched the darts out of her neck. They had nasty barbs in them, so it wasn't a pleasant experience. She cast them onto the ground. The holes they left in her skin healed almost instantaneously.
Sam dashed across the street so the man couldn't jump the rooftops. She barreled through people, not wasting the energy to apologize. She could feel herself nodding off. Even though she removed the darts, there were enough sedatives in them to knock out a bull elephant.
She zig-zagged through alleys, hopped some fences, and even took some detours through buildings and shops. Sam knew she was running out of time. Her usually sharp vision was dimming, and her coordination was going fast. After blundering around like an inebriated fool for a bit, she stumbled into a short, blonde man closing the door to his flat. Startled, he supported her collapsing body weight. She moaned. "Whatever… you do… don't take me to a hospital. They'll kill me. Let me… sleep this… off…" He watched her hazel eyes roll back into her head.
His wide, blue eyes darted around. He concluded that he probably shouldn't be standing in the street with an unconscious woman, he lugged her body back into his flat. "Sherlock!" he called, his voice resounding through the foyer. He squatted down and hoisted the woman up in his arms.
Sherlock could hear his friend clamoring up the stairwell. "Back already, John?" Sherlock had his nose buried in a newspaper. He tilted it down when he noticed John was breathing heavily. Upon seeing his friend hauling an unconscious female up the stairs, his eyes narrowed and he threw the newspaper down.
"Help me get her on the sofa," wheezed John. Sherlock cleared off the stacks of newspapers that were occupying the sofa before gripping her legs. They laid her down, her body flopping over like a rag doll. As John rambled on about how the woman came out of nowhere and passed out on him, Sherlock was running an analysis on her.
"Anyways, she said not to, but I really think we should get her to a hospital," spoke John.
"No," asserted Sherlock. "Something's not right. I need to run some tests." He turned on his heel and took off for the kitchen.
John called out to Sherlock in vain. He sighed and turned to look at the woman with somber eyes. His mind wandered for a bit, but he shook himself into focus, grabbing her wrist to get a pulse. Her skin felt fevered However, her pulse was a steady eighty beats per minute.
Sherlock returned with an assortment of items. He handed a syringe to John. "I need a blood sample."
Sam groaned out in agony as she came to. Her entire body ached and her head was pounding. Water. Water, that's what she needed. She rubbed her eyes and began to sit up, when she was startled by a smooth, British voice.
"Feeling better, are we?"
She winced over at a man, Sherlock, sitting in a chair only five feet away. Her head was spinning, but she could make out that he was leaning forward, fingers steepled, watching her closely. "Uuhhnngghh… Where am I?" she mumbled, glancing around the flat.
Sherlock sat up straight in his chair and cleared his throat. "The first thing I noticed was that you had blood dripped on your shirt in a pattern synonymous with a neck wound. Upon inspecting your neck, there were no traces of damage. In fact, there are no traces of damage on your body anywhere. No tan lines, no acne scars, no fine lines around the eyes. Your skin is immaculate. The grand daddy of it all, however,"
She knew exactly where this conversation was going.
"No navel." Sherlock's tone was severe. Sam opened her mouth, but Sherlock cut her off. "I had a blood sample drawn from you. When the needle was retracted, the puncture mark vanished completely." She opened her mouth again, but he wouldn't let her speak. "I examined your blood, and, well…" Sherlock was at a loss for words. "It… it's definitely not human."
He glanced around the room, as though making sure no one were around to hear, before he leaned in towards her. "How?"