Chapter 1: Loneliness Ends
Despite being "dead," Sherlock could not seem to shake his profession. He spent a few days in his hiding place, memorizing his fake identity and trying to get the lay of the land. The small, suburban areas of Haven, New Jersey, United States of America were not a difficult spot to memorize. The town reminded him of a country home his family had once rented for the summer, without the benefit of a lake with interesting algae samples.
But, anyway, here he was, lingering outside of the police station. It was a dreary day, but not a rainy one. The forecast had predicted thunderstorms, and Sherlock could smell the storm on the air. He was bored, not having yet found the exact location of Moriarty's American operative, and needed something to occupy his mind. Besides, of course, thinking about the people and the country he'd left behind.
Suddenly, he detected an air of unrest among two police officers lingering outside the station. There was a little girl with them, with hair a fiery red color. Sherlock crossed the street and slid in front of a café, pretending to be looking at the menu but really listening to the dialogue going on nearby.
The policemen were obviously trying to talk to the girl. "What's your name?" "What did you see?" "Can you talk?" But they were getting frustrated, as the little girl was unresponsive. Sherlock looked her up and down, his mind picking up on facts. The reason the police were so interested in her was that she'd been in a house fire—the only survivor, most likely. He could tell by the ashes on her shoes and in her hair, though her clothes had been changed by someone (likely a psychiatrist). She wasn't an American child—the red hair pointed to her Irish heritage, and she couldn't speak English. The little girl wasn't looking at the police officers. She was watching passers-by on the street and playing with her fingers.
Sign language! Sherlock thought. Here was a challenge! The last time he'd been bored, he committed himself to learning sign language, in case it became useful later on. Here was his chance to prove (to himself, he realized with some disappointment) that he had learned enough of the language to communicate with someone who used it! He strode over to the officers and knelt down to the little girl's level. "I think I can help," he said kindly, turning his attention to the girl and lifting his hands.
Hello.
The little girl seemed slightly surprised Sherlock knew what he was doing. Hello.
"You can speak to her?" One of the officers asked.
"Yeah," Sherlock tried to disguise his accent a little more by trying to sound more American. "It's sign language. She's not American. Her father was Irish and her mother was deaf. She can't speak English, because her father never spoke it to her."
"Ask her what her name is."
Sherlock complied.
Eliza Hadley.
"Ask her if she saw anyone suspicious around her house this morning."
No. There was a whining sound.
"Explain."
Sounded like a whoosh, like ticking. I was scared.
Sherlock smiled. It's okay. He signed, before communicating the information to the police officers.
How do you know it's okay? The little girl signed.
Sherlock shifted to his other knee. Because the police will protect you.
No. They're bad.
Why?
"What's she saying to you?"
Sherlock wracked his brain for a lie. "Childish nonsense. Anything else to ask her?"
"Ask her if we can step inside the station," one of the officers pulled his jacket around him. "It's getting chilly."
The little girl complied, but wanted to be picked up. Sherlock sighed and lifted the child. What's your name?
Sherlock rolled his eyes and whispered in her ear: "Sherlock." There was no harm in telling a child his real name. Especially not a child who couldn't speak English. And there wasn't a sign for "Sherlock" in sign language.
The little girl tried to make one up. Shear lock?
Close enough. Sherlock signed with his unoccupied hand. What language do you speak?
Gaelic.
That was fortunate. Mycroft had made him learn Gaelic when he was twelve. "Do you mind if we talk? It's easier for me because I'm carrying you."
"Okay."
"You don't like the police. Are they after you?"
"My daddy didn't like the police."
"Why not?"
"Bad Man."
Sherlock left it at that, to draw his own conclusions. Maybe he'd stumbled upon Moriarty's operative in this country completely by accident. Obviously, the fire was an arson—some kind of incendiary bomb, perhaps, that didn't go off as planned and left the girl as a survivor.
Maybe it was best that Sherlock hang onto the girl. She could prove useful.
There were some official statements to be made, which Sherlock translated for. Then, the officers shook his hand. "Thanks for your help, Mister…?"
"Saylor. David Saylor." Sherlock replied, smiling back.
"Right, Mr. Saylor. Well, we need to get Eliza here settled into a foster home that would be safe from anyone trying to pursue her."
"I'm renting a hotel room just outside of town," Sherlock replied. "I could take her there with me." He was silently hoping that the Americans would be as easily pulled into his charming demeanor as Scotland Yard had been.
The officers considered things, and then relented. "Very well. Seems for the best, especially since you're the only one who can speak to her. We'll let you know if she's needed." The officers gave him a few papers to sign and a number to call in case, and then Sherlock took his valuable (but vulnerable) ally with him.