"John," said Sherlock. "Take a look at this." He tossed his mobile to John. John read the words on the little screen. "Need you at Buckingham Palace, royal ruby stolen. Will you go?"
"It really doesn't interest me. Lestrade should know that."
"Hold on, there's another message."
"What is it?"
"It says: 'A murder and a wounded victim as well.'"
"That's more like it! Come on!"
"Well, here's the murder victim. Poor man," said Greg Lestrade as he led Sherlock and John into a private parlour at Buckingham Palace.
John knelt beside the body. "Oh, my God. His face has been almost entirely blown off."
"Did you find the weapon?" asked Sherlock as he examined a smashed window.
"We did. A sawed-off shotgun. At close range, it's enough to blow a man to pieces."
"What about the other victim?"
"Young woman, about twenty. She was just taken to the hospital, seemed to have snapped."
"You mean she had gone insane?"
"Possibly."
Sherlock stooped over a gold pedestal with broken glass around it. "This was the case the ruby was kept in?" he asked as he looked studiously at the velvet cushion that still remained in the case.
"It was." Lestrade walked over to Sherlock and, not knowing what else to do, also stared at the cushion.
Sherlock straightened. "The thief was a man, he has rather large feet for his height, and long eyelashes, if that will help you any." He began to walk out of the room, "Come on, John."
"Where are we going?"
"To the hospital."
After they left, the constable on duty asked Lestrade inquiringly, "Eyelashes, sir?"
Inside the hospital, Sherlock sat in the waiting room while John saw the patient. In a few minutes, John came out to fetch Sherlock. As John led Sherlock back to the room, he told him of the injuries the girl had sustained. "She has bruising around the temples, she was hit with something, and was shot in the right shoulder. Nothing that will hurt her permanently or that is life-threatening."
"No signs of mental trauma?"
"None. She was probably in shock." He opened the door. Inside the room was a young woman, sitting and gazing out of the window. The first thing that struck Sherlock was her hair, golden, curly and long. John walked over to her, "This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes, he has a few questions to ask you."
The girl turned her head and looked at Sherlock; her piercing blue eyes stared into his. He held her gaze until she looked away.
"I can't believe it was him. My Jimmy." She said, her bottom lip trembling. "I always knew he was hiding something, but I never thought-" She burst into tears.
"Who exactly is Jimmy?" asked Sherlock as he sat on the foot of the bed.
"My best friend. My only family, my brother Jim Moriarty." John glanced at Sherlock, who was staring at the girl.
"Your brother?" he asked.
"Well, not biologically. He adopted me when I was about five. I ran away from an abusive home, he found me, and cared for me." She began to cry again; John took her hand and stroked it softly. "And I loved him! He was everything to me! But now, I can't go home, can I? He'll know. I'm afraid of what would happen."
"We won't let that happen," said Sherlock. "You will be under police protection." The girl nodded.
"Now, what exactly were you doing in Buckingham Palace?"
"I work there. I'm a maid."
"Who was the man in the parlour?"
"A maintenance man. They were having some problems with the ventilation shaft in that room."
"Thank you. We will be going now. By the way," he said as he stood. "What is your name?"
"Anne. Anne Fischer."
"Nice to meet you, Anne. Come along, John."
As John stood up, Anne grasped his sleeve, "You will come back to see me?" she asked softly. "Every day, if I can," he said reassuringly. She sighed and laid back on the pillows, releasing his sleeve. "Thank you," she whispered. John nodded, and left the room.
As they rode home, Sherlock and John discussed the case. "The man who stole that ruby was a professional criminal. An excellent one. But Moriarty slipped up, he left Miss Fischer alive. Now she won't be able to go anywhere without protection. Not that Scotland Yard will be able to help her much."
"We can't just let her get murdered!" exclaimed John.
"No, you're right. We can't. We might have to take her under our wings for a while. When you go to visit her, why don't you suggest she live with us for a while? It would be the safest."
"Alright, but where will she sleep?"
"On the sofa."
"You can't just take a girl with injuries and emotional trauma and stick her on a sofa!" John cried, in an astonished tone.
"No, you're right. She'll have to sleep on the floor."
"No!"
"Where then?"
"In a bed."
"We only have two."
"My point exactly."
"Oh, I'm sorry John."
"What?"
"That sofa isn't the most comfortable place to sleep."
Two weeks later, Anne moved into 221B with John and Sherlock. At first, Sherlock thought she was a nuisance. Three days after she came to live with them, Sherlock was using the wall for target practice, sitting lazily in his chair. Suddenly, his head was pulled back by the hair, and the gun wrestled from his grip. He jumped up. There stood Anne, calmly disassembling the gun.
"Why did you do that?" he shouted. She looked at him calmly and steadily
"One, it is against the law. Two, it's quite irritating. If you're bored I have some things you could learn."
"Like what?" he scoffed.
"How to clean the kitchen. It's disgusting."
Sherlock grabbed his coat and stormed out of the flat. Anne watched him go, then turned to go back into the kitchen when she saw John, who was watching her. "Can I help you with something?" she asked, slightly awkwardly.
"Oh, no. I was just wondering if there was anything you wanted me to get for you while I'm out."
"Do you think it would be okay if I went with you? I've got lots of things I need."
"Well... I don't see why not."
Anne smiled happily, then ran to get her shoes and coat. They left together a few minutes later.
Anne dragged John all over town, buying canvases, paints, paint brushes, yarn, knitting supplies, all with her own money. She refused point blank to let John pay for anything. After they had finished all the shopping, they returned to the flat, and Anne immediately set up a small art studio in her room. When Sherlock returned he sniffed the air, "John! John!" John poked his head out of Anne's room. "Yes?"
"What is that smell?"
"Paints."
"Paints? For what?"
"Anne."
"Oh." Sherlock walked into Anne's room and looked at the canvas she was painting. It was a landscape, with maple trees and rolling hills. Uninterested, Sherlock turned and left.
"He doesn't admire art, does he?" asked Anne.
"Not really," admitted John.
"Ah, well! It's his loss!" Anne said gaily.
She put down her brush and left the room. John heard a crash from the kitchen, "Oh no! Not that Sherlock! Those were for dinner, not for dissection!" She ran back to John, "He took the trout."