Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?
When Anna hears of Sherlock Holmes, the discredited, infamous, and controversial consulting detective, she knows he is her only hope to solve a case that is seemingly airtight and closed. Despite Watson's protests, and the meddling of his brother, Sherlock takes on the case, his interests peeked by this ordinary girl. Together, Anna and Sherlock might clear his name...and begin a new future in a way neither could imagine.
PROLOGUE
They found her body in the tub, but the cause of death was overdose. Heroin and Xanax. She had fallen asleep in the warm water. Vomit floated around her face.
There was no note.
The next day, my mother sat on the toilet, crying, while my father and I cleaned out her flat. She didn't have curtains- just a bed sheet nailed over the single window in her room. Papers, empty food boxes, and garbage littered the small, barely livable, area. She hadn't left in three months. The landlord had made calls and complaints but my parents, being as separated and busy as they were, never answered.
On her mobile were over a dozen messages left by me.
23 years old. Suffered from Bipolar Disorder and Aspbergers her whole life. Had been committed into Safe Garden institute a year before. Hadn't left the apartment in months. Journal was incoherent. Clearly suicide.
Clearly. Suicide.
When I got home I played the message on my mobile again.
"Anna, I'm so sorry to bother you. I'm sorry I haven't returned any of your calls. I-I-I appreciate you uhm...coming by. Listen. I know I was nasty. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Anna. I'm on the verge of something even bigger than the article I published before. I don't think everything will be OK because if it I know but-Anna. Thank you."
I stared at the phone. My sister hadn't killed herself. All signs pointed otherwise, I knew.
And yet. She had promised. And she never broke a promise.
"Have you heard about this Sherlock Holmes bloke, Anna?" My dad asked, the moment I walked into the kitchen. It was early, too early for conversation about blokes whose name contained more than one syllable.
Without answering I yawned, and poured my first cup of coffee of the day. It had been a week since Sarah's death, and my dad had decidedly moved into my flat. He was an unwelcome squatter. I had told him such, but he believed to be doing a service. Mostly, assuaging his own loneliness.
"He put on this big show to prove to the public all his cases were legitimate," my dad continued, despite my groggy disinterest. "Faked his death, they say. Well! I say it makes him look more fake than ever."
I lowered my cuppa thoughtfully. "Isn't that the man who solved the suicide-murder of those three people a few years ago?"
I only remembered this because I had researched "murders that looked like suicides in London", and John Watson's blog was the first link to appear. I had spent hours on the site. But no. There was another reason the name faintly registered. What was it?
"He didn't solve anything Anna," my father sighed, unknowingly interrupting my thoughts. "He conjured it all up. Like I said. A big show."
I continued staring into my coffee, thinking. Sherlock Holmes.
The recognition hit me like a slap in the face. I felt my whole body react.
"Dad. I've gotta pop out for a while. I'll be back."
I ran upstairs, grabbed my coat and slipped on a pair of worn penny loafers. Without changing my pajamas, I rushed out the door into the blistery cold.
It had taken a week but finally, after Sherlock Holmes had not made an appearance, the reporters begrudgingly left the stoop of 221B. The mass of people who once stood outside with their cameras dwindled, and then vanished altogether. It was quiet, for once.
Inside, the tension was thick, uncomfortable. John had not spoken two words to Sherlock, and Sherlock carried on as if nothing had ever happened. From the kitchen Mrs. Hudson and Mary, John's fiance, watched the two men ignore each other as if they were angry schoolgirls. John read the paper, his nose centimeters from the page. Sherlock played violin.
"It's like living in some kind of reality TV show," Mary whispered. "Except instead of watching in comfortably on the telly, we are part of the eventual explosion that may or may not end with Sherlock dying again."
"At least there's no bullet holes going through the wall," Mrs. Hudson sighed.
Mary frowned. John had been doing so well before Sherlock appeared again. He had moved on as much as he was going to. Now Sherlock was back, and John was internally dealing with the confusion and betrayal he felt when the consulting detective… well when he thought he had died. The worst of it was there was nothing, no words of wisdom, Mary could say. They didn't exactly sell So Your Best Friend Faked His Death and Has Come Back To Life in bookstores.
The doorbell rang.
"Ignore it," John mumbled irritably.
The doorbell rang again this time several times in a row. No one in the flat moved. Suddenly the person began knocking loudly. John threw the paper down, and bolted toward the door.
Mary followed desperately after him. "Wait! John!"
John flung the door open. There, on the stoop, was a frightened looking young woman. No older than her early twenties, Mary assumed. She looked at John with concern, noting his angry frown. Mary stepped between her fiance and the young woman, not wanting a scene for someone to catch sight of.
"I'm sorry, dear, we're not taking interviews," Mary explained patiently.
The young woman's eyes furrowed, genuinely perplexed. "I'm not here to get a story," she said softly. "I have a case. For Sherlock Holmes."
John and Mary looked at each other, eyes wide. It suddenly dawned on them that, of all the people who had showed up, not one of them had a case for Sherlock. John looked at the young woman suspiciously.
"How do we know this isn't a prank?" he asked.
The girl wrapped her coat tightly around her chest and looked around, as if worried someone would overhear. "My name is Anna Banks. My sister is Sarah Banks. She was a political analyst and for a time worked at the largest PR firm in London. Last week she died. It looks like a suicide but…" the girl looked directly at John Watson, "I know it wasn't."
There was a heavy silence. Mary stared at John, anxiously.
"Could you give us a moment, please?" John asked.
"Sure. I'll be waiting in the cafe," Anna consented, and walked away.
John closed the door. "I don't like the smell of this," he grumbled, rubbing his hand over his face. There were deep bags under his eyes, Mary noticed. And he was thin. Very thin. When was the last time she'd seen him eat? I can't remember. Some bloody wife I'll be.
"She seems to be honest," Mary whispered. "I mean. No one else has come with a case."
"Her honesty isn't the problem," John huffed impatiently. "Sherlock isn't ready for a case. He just...got back."
Got back, Mary repeated to herself. As if he'd been on a long vacation. They're both in denial.
She placed her hand softly on John's shoulder. "Maybe we should hear her out. She seemed desperate."
John bristled. "No. No absolutely not. The last thing we need is fuel for the fire. Sherlock needs to lay low and not get caught up in some bloody case again."
The military doctor stormed off, leaving his future wife standing in shock behind him.
After an hour of waiting inside Speedy's cafe, I had what one might call, no hope at all.
There was little wonder as to why. After catching sight of myself in the mirror, I realized my hair was in a messy bun, not the cute kind that takes hours to do, but one that looks like a crazy bird built its nest merely to stash dead bodies. My face was pale, ghastly from lack of sleep. And my breath reeked. I groaned, and rested my head on the table. I blew it. A few extra minutes prepping, and I might have walked through the door. Maybe. The fellow seemed quite determined to let me freeze in the snow. I had no desire to go home to my grumbling father. Perhaps I could go back. Ask to speak directly to Sherlock. He was a grown ass man, after all. Couldn't he decide for himself?
Timidly, the waitress approached my table. "Excuse me, miss?"
With effort I lifted my head up, expecting the waitress to politely ask me to find the nearest mental institution. Instead she said, "That man over there wants to pay for your breakfast."
I glanced across the room. There, sitting in a corner, was a man with balding hair, pointed nose, and an umbrella. He was staring intently at me, a piercing, uncomfortable stare. I had never seen this man in my life, nor had anyone bought me breakfast before. Before I could protest he walked over, and with authority, sat across at me, still staring into my soul in the most severe manner.
I was afraid. Not in the sense that he was a dangerous man- I knew he was a dangerous man- I knew, however, he would not hurt me. Yet the jurisdiction in his mannerism paralyzed me. He meant business. I knew no matter what he wanted from me he would get it.
"You wish to speak to Sherlock Holmes," the mystery man stated matter of factly. "I can arrange for that to happen."
"Who are you?" I asked. My tone was not demanding, but genuinely curious.
"My name is Mycroft Holmes," he answered. "Do you trust my word?"
"No," I scoffed. "I'd be a fool to. I have no idea who you are and outside of family I don't know what relationship you have with Sherlock."
The man smirked. "You'll do just fine."