Title: Homecomings
Summary: Sherlock Holmes receives a call from an old contact hoping to pull in a favor.
Genre: General
Rating: G
Word Count: 700
Spoilers: Set Post-Reichenbach return and immediately following the Orphan Black finale.

Notes: Written on a spur-of-the-moment inspiration. Have some vague ideas about where I could go with this but as of this second I'm not certain if I'll be indulging them, so for now I'm marking it complete. Not beta'd or britpicked, sorry for any errors.

Homecomings

His phone lights up with an unfamiliar number. Sherlock glances. It's either a contact or Mycroft is growing even sloppier with his security force. But his brother doesn't call at 5AM apropos of nothing, and — ten digits — he's definitely not arsed enough to travel to North America in mid-December so near the holidays when he could be lazing about downing eggnog.

He picks up.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Hey, it's — ah. Shit, you know who it is." A breath. "I need a favor."

He's processed the woman's strained voice in a heartbeat. "Ms Manning. Nice to hear you made it out of London in one piece."

"Yeah, I'm in Ontario. Sorry to call now, I know it's early there, but — I've been out all night looking, and — " Her voice breaks. He hears the release of a breath; stabilizing before she speaks again. "I've got... a case for you. That's what you do now, right, with that John guy? Cosima — a friend — she reads his blog. You solve cases or something?"

He rolls his eyes. She can't see him, John can't see him, it's 5:23 AM and the sun hasn't risen and the only hint of light in the flat is spilling from the crack underneath the bathroom door and nobody can see him, but he rolls them all the same. "Or something."

"...Holmes. Sherlock. They took my daughter. I need your help."

"They?"

"It's — a long story. Look, will you come?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. "I can likely solve your dilemma from my couch if you provide me with the details."

"A phone conversation's not going to be enough," she says, "you need to come."

God. He doesn't bother hiding his distain. "To Canada."

"Yeah," and her voice picks up, frantic, "to bloody Canada — my foster mum stole my daughter and I'm on the run from an evolution-crazy band of weirdos that wants to strap us down on slabs and poke us with syringes and I just need someone who can work underground, faster than the police, okay?" She pauses. Then, quieter: "I helped you fake your bloody suicide, yeah? I didn't imagine those ten months you called me away to clean up your bullshit. She's just — she's gone. I left Kira once for you, I can't lose her again. I'm pulling in a favor. Please."

There's nearly too much to make sense of without context, but he latches onto: "Who's us?"

"What?"

"Us, you said 'strap us down' — your daughter included?" Nonconsensual human experimentation. Child kidnappers. Hm.

"Yeah, her. And — some others. I'll explain in person, I don't want to say over the line."

"If you suspect this call is being monitored by the aforementioned organization — "

"No, you only — you wouldn't believe me without proof. You need to be here to get it. God. Sherlock, just, will you come? I ditched Vic, if it's him you're worried about running into — "

"I no longer hold personal associations with drug dealing hellions, Sarah, as you're aware, and as such I no longer waste concern for their whereabouts nor affairs." (It's purely business. He'd do the same for any international client with an interesting enough case. Of course.) So before he can measure the full extent of his emotional response to the matter: "I'll be there tomorrow evening with a companion. Text me the address."

He hangs up as John wanders into the sitting room from the shower, rubbing out his ears with a towel. "Case from Lestrade?"

Sherlock rises and glides over to his laptop on the table, awaking it from sleep and opening a new tab. "A former member of my homeless network is pulling in a favor." The URL address fills itself in the search bar after only two typed letters. "Her daughter's been abducted. By the sound of it she's gotten on bad terms with medical extremists since our last association a few months ago." If he's honest with himself, he's vaguely impressed.

John's posture indicates he's already brimming with questions, no doubt about the woman and their history and what "former" means and how Sherlock almost assuredly would've never taken on personal cases before he went away, but he only asks, "Where?"

"Toronto." Two British Airways business class seats are available on flight BA0093. "Trip length is currently indeterminable, so prepare your essentials and any possible necessities for a covert undertaking." Tickets purchased, Sherlock blows through the kitchen to his room to pack. "Start reading up on radical Canadian scientific establishments. Our plane leaves at 12:15 tomorrow."