Author's note: I freely admit my obsession with minor characters is reaching strange levels, even for me.
I don't own anything, please review.
Word travels fast on the streets, especially when one is part of Sherlock Holmes' homeless network.
She hears of his death within an hour. It's Shinwell who tells her, but that's not surprising; he's always been the best at getting information as soon as possible.
She stares at him. Sure, her relationship – if one could even call it that – with Sherlock has always been strictly professional, money for information (unless she remembers that one Christmas where – no, she is not going to do that, she doesn't want to grieve, her life is already difficult enough) but he never seemed the type to commit suicide.
"Why?" she asks dumbly, and Shinwell just shakes his head, looking like the weight of the World is on his shoulders, more defeated than she has ever seen him, and she remembers that it was him that told her about the consulting detective's offer to pay for any information they can give him, he who made sure their information reached Sherlock if they couldn't get to any meeting point, he (it's the word on the street, at least) who was the very first informant the strange man ever had, and she wonders if they knew each other before Sherlock built up the network.
He is right. She knows why. Everyone does. The ridiculous accusations against Sherlock. Ridiculous because everyone who ever met him knew what he could do.
They met for the first time a few weeks after Shinwell had told her about his offer. At the time she had been suspicious – a man paying homeless people for information? Really? She had decided against it mainly because it usually wasn't a good thing when a young man offered a young woman who lived on the streets money.
But then, in the middle of November, when she didn't get a place in a shelter and she hadn't had a proper meal in days, she decided to try because anything was better than starving.
She went to the address Shinwell had given her, a crappy apartment building in a run-down part of the town and waited for him to come out. If there is one thing she's learned, it's never to enter a place when one doesn't know what to expect.
She'd already been living on the street for two years at this point – ever since she ran away from home when she was seventeen – and had developed a sixth sense for people coming up behind her. She'd grown used to always be on her guard.
Or so she'd thought. Because suddenly Sherlock appeared behind her and stated "I assume you are the one Shinwell told me about".
She turned around and quickly jumped back – good God, had he never heard of personal space? – but the incredibly thing and pale young man who was mustering her either didn't notice or didn't care that he'd startled her.
His gaze was intense, but strangely enough, it didn't creep her out. Because she had seen the looks certain men gave her, and this wasn't one of them. He seemed to be analyzing her, and just as she started to wonder what information he possibly hoped to gain from staring, he answered her unspoken question.
"You ran away from home about two years ago because you could no longer stand the physical abuse inflicted by your father. You don't take drugs, although a friend of you does. You didn't want to come here, worried about my intentions, even though it must be clear to anyone who knows Shinwell that he wouldn't send a young woman into a trap."
She stared at him; thinking about her father and George – he lived on the streets too, he was a friend and he took cocaine – she wasn't sure if she should slap him.
Because yes, he was insensitive and had no right to tell her her life's story, but at the same time –
He looked at her so calmly. He didn't judge. He simply – whatever it was that he did – and he knew. It was enough for him to know.
And, she reminded herself, Shinwell trusted him.
"What do you need?" she asked, and he was silent for a moment. Maybe, she later thought, he had expected her to be angry; maybe he had expected her to scream and hit him.
He recovered quickly, however, and explained that he needed to know if someone had been seen in the vicinity of a house where a break-in had occurred two days before, and since Shinwell had told him that she stayed in a park near the address now and then. Therefore she knew the regulars of the neighbourhood and would be able to get him the information she needed.
She nodded and left.
It was easy enough to get the information, and he gave her fifty pounds for it, even though he looked like he could barely afford it.
Shinwell had told her that he was a "consulting detective", that he solved crimes, so she had assumed that he had wanted to catch the burglar.
Only later – when she saw the headlines in the tabloids that a man who had been suspected of a triple murder had instead been proven to be a burglar – did she realize that he had saved a man from a long prison sentence.
And she had helped him. It felt good. It felt better than – anything had felt in a long time.
From that day on, she gladly helped him. Yes, she still accepted money for the information, but she was glad that she helped him solved crimes and save innocents.
She was sure he didn't see his work that way, though. He never smiled, in fact he never expressed any emotion, even if he asked her after the location a double murderer was hiding in.
And then, on Christmas Eve, he sent word out that a woman he didn't believe had been homeless but had been made to look like one had been killed, and she heard the description and just knew that it was Melanie Jenkins, a woman who had been working in a shelter at Carnaby Street, a woman who had always been nice to her, and she immediately went to his flat. She waited outside as always, told him what she knew and declined the money. She didn't want the money. She wanted him to find out who had done this, who had killed her – her friend.
She had had almost forgotten what it was like when someone was nice to her – at home, certainly no one had been, and on the streets... But Melanie had been kind. Melanie had given her food and shelter and tried to convince her that she was worth something, that she didn't have to live on the streets.
She had left home, had sworn that she would never care about someone else in her life. She had loved her father before he had lost his job and started to take his frustration out on his children; she had loved her mother before she had turned her back when he had raised his hand; she had loved her older sister until she ran away like she would three years later, claiming she couldn't stand it any longer, leaving her there. It didn't matter that she could understand why she had run away, it didn't matter that a part of her hated herself because she couldn't forgive her sister. Nothing matters.
Melanie had made her care, and she hated her for it, and she hated herself for hating her for it, and she couldn't take the money because it wouldn't feel right.
And Sherlock gave her hundred instead of fifty pounds and told her "Not for the information. The Season's Greetings". She didn't want the money. She didn't want to see what no one else did. So she didn't look him in the eyes, but at the pavement, giving them both time to school their features.
When she looked up, he looked as bored as ever, but there was still something in his eyes, something like compassion, something like vulnerability.
She smiled, took the money and thanked him.
And from then on, she knew he had a heart.
She helped him gladly. She took the money, but she helped him because she wanted to, not because she needed to in order to survive.
She chose not to think about what that meant. Caring is a disadvantage, especially when you live on the streets.
She was happy for him when he found a friend. Or whatever John Watson – she got his name from the papers – was to him. She only saw him twice – once when Sherlock gave her the description of someone he was seeking and the doctor got out of the cab and followed him, and when she gave Sherlock the information he'd asked for and John got out of the cab – but she though he looked nice.
And now he's dead.
Because she looks at Shinwell and she remembers Sherlock and realizes that he made her care too, just like Melanie, and the grief hits her. It fills the empty space in her where she suspects other people carry the love for their friends and family, until all she can feel is grief, and she swallows.
"Do they – do they really think – "
Even she doesn't know who she means with "they". And it's not important. Sherlock is dead, and she should be concerned because the money really helped her, but she isn't because she's too busy being sad.
"Of course" Shinwell answers bitterly, and she tells herself that should be it, grieving is enough, she should turn around and go and worry about how she is going to get something to eat, but she can't.
So she says, "Maybe they need to hear the truth".
Shinwell looks at her, just looks at her, and she's beginning to wonder if she said the wrong thing when he starts to smile.
As it turns out, almost everyone Sherlock ever gave money too is ready to speak out for him.
She and Shinwell don't even have to contact most of them because they all turn up at Sherlock's funeral, safely in the background, paying their respects. The other guests ignore them, like they always do.
But John Watson sees them and his eyes land on her and he seems to recognize her because he smiles, of only for a brief moment, and she knows they did something right, something good, something true.
And they want to do more. They want to let the World know.
They know, of course, that people won't believe them. They're only homeless. Their opinion doesn't count.
So, instead of giving interviews they spray "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" on every free wall they can find. A friend of Sherlock's – Raz, who came to her as soon as he heard about her plan to make the World realize not everyone considered Sherlock Holmes a criminal – teaches them how, shows them how to paint, and slowly but surely they turn whole streets into a statement, colour the city, make people remember.
Of course it helps when people like Henry Knight start giving interviews or when it turns out that Scotland Yard reinvestigated yet another one of Sherlock's cases only to find that he was right.
It doesn't bring him back to life, but it helps.
And somehow, amidst all of this, the grief for someone who probably wouldn't have noticed if she disappeared, and the joy when it turns out he was a genius after all, she finds that caring isn't so bad, because there is John Watson (who they decide to shadow, just in case) who gives every homeless person he sees money or the nice old lady who invites her in for tea the one time she decides to walk by Sherlock's home.
It is after this visit that she decides to try and care. Care about others, and more importantly, care about herself.
Because she remembers the hundred pounds at Christmas, and if someone like Sherlock Holmes thought she was worth it, so does she.
She doesn't know it yet, but soon enough, Sherlock will return and she will read the news in her own small flat and call Shinwell and Raz.
She doesn't know either that she'll wait outside 221B just like in the old times and he'll return home and look at her, deduce her and nod with a smile.
She doesn't know either that she'll be smiling all the way home.
For the simple fact that she chose to care.
Author's note: I got inspired. What can I do? You might recognize some details from my other stories. Because – because. Oh well. Still hoped you liked it.
Please review.