She shouldered the backpack and rounded a corner, picking up speed as the rush of pedestrians streamed around her on their way from work, school, to home. Occasionally, she glanced behind her to see if she was being followed. The answer seemed to be no. She turned and continued forward.

Dusk was gathering. It would be cold soon. She was no stranger to the elements, but still wanted to find a relatively safe place to spend the night – preferably alone. She stayed away from shelters. Too many people, too many questions.

A nook near a dark shop caught her eye. The windows and door were boarded up. No one would be coming in to disturb her, and the slight inlet off the sidewalk would protect her, however little, from the cold. Taking another sweeping glance around, she threw down her backpack and wrenched it open, eager to find her sleeping bag before the night fully engulfed the city. She put on several extra layers of clothing – another pair of socks, a black windbreaker, gloves – before curling up inside the worn sleeping bag and closing her eyes against the darkening sky. Exhaustion overtook her. Within minutes, she was asleep.

"Hey there. You all right?" the concerned voice jolted her awake.

She sat bolt upright, getting tangled slightly in the sleeping bag. Her joints ached from another night on cold ground, and her eyes squinted against the bright morning sunlight. In front of her stood a short man, blonde, middle-aged, his eyes worried. She quickly unzipped the sleeping bag and started stuffing it into her backpack.

"Yeah. I'm fine, thanks for asking," she responded hastily. "Just passing through…didn't quite make it to my uncle's place last night…"

The words sounded forced and false. She knew the man would never buy them.

"You know about St. John's around the corner?" he asked, clearly seeing through her lies. "They serve hot breakfast until nine."

Her eyes narrowed as she finished packing up her backpack. She bent down to tie her shoes, never taking her glare off the man. He was overly concerned, and that worried her.

"You make it a habit of waking up everyone on the streets of London?" she asked, standing up and pulling on her backpack straps.

He smiled.

"I pass this way every morning. People always sleep in the same spots. Not too much variation. You see someone new, you wonder if they're all right," he shrugged. "Sorry if I bothered you."

She felt a twinge of guilt in her stomach. Although her guard was still up, she honestly felt the man meant no harm. She sighed. It was always this sentimental side that got her in trouble. But her stomach was tight, and a hot breakfast did sound good this morning. She smiled.

"Not a problem. Sorry I was so rude. Mind showing me to St. John's?"

The man smiled back and nodded. Together they walked in silence to the church, observing the sunrise over the city as its people began to awaken. They reached the iron gates and the man turned toward her.

"Listen," he said, "I don't do this often, but you're clearly new here, and pretty young as well."

She shrugged. He was helping her to breakfast. He didn't need to know her life story. But her eyes glazed over slightly as he held out a business card with his name and address on it beneath a phone number.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to call," he said.

He then held out his hand. She grabbed it and shook it, thanking him for breakfast and the card. He then walked away, turning the corner and disappearing from her sight. She turned over the card in her hands.

"John Watson," she muttered, stuffing it into her pocket. "I'll keep that offer in mind, Mr. Watson."

She opened the latch on the gate and walked into the churchyard, following several makeshift signs to the breakfast room. Before entering the building, she gathered her hair into a messy bun and hid it underneath a grey knit cap. She then pulled the hood of her jacket over her head and opened the door. Inside, about fifteen people sat at round tables, nursing steaming Styrofoam cups of black coffee and eating plates of pancakes drowned in syrup. She approached the long table in front where elderly men and women were handing out plates and cups to several people in front of her.

"I'm sorry, dearie, but you'll have to take your hood off," said one of the ladies as she handed her a plate of pancakes. "Kitchen policy, you see."

She smiled at the woman, and then stiffly removed the hood. She immediately felt exposed and vulnerable. Her heart rate increased, her eyes darted around the room. But no one was moving. No one cared that one small girl had taken off her hood. She continued down the line, nodding at the white-haired vicar who asked if she wanted syrup and thanking the last man in line who handed her a small cup of piping hot coffee. Wandering through to the tables, she chose one completely apart from the rest of the diners. She sat quickly and prayed swiftly over her breakfast, reciting lines from a time long past and from memory long marred, before digging into the food.

A sharp pain in her side brought everything to her throat. Her breath hitched. She went to reach inside her front pocket, but was met with a cruel laugh.

"I don't think so, sweetheart," he said quietly. "Hands on the table. You make a move and everyone in this room is dead."

Her breath was ragged, her pulse racing.

"What do you want?" she asked quietly, her voice shaking as she attempted to hide the panic rising within.

"It's not what I want. Jim wants you back," he hissed. "Now, you're going to be a good girl and step away from the table. You're coming outside with me. No fuss."

"What if I fight back?" she asked.

He laughed harshly, digging the tip of the knife into her side slightly and twisting. She gasped with the sudden pain.

"You know him. This place is surrounded, sweetheart. You fight back, and all these people die." He smirked. "And you still end up with him. Questions?"

She shook her head slightly. Together they stood and walked out the door. She nodded stiffly to the man holding the door open for them, and then was guided to a black SUV parked just outside the iron gates of the churchyard. A door swung open in the backseat. Her head was wrenched to the side as a needle stabbed her quickly in the neck. A sharp pain was followed by a single question from the open door, after which everything went black.

"Did you miss me?"